#TJs Fluffbruary

[tj-dragonblade]

[Fluffbruary Fic] Marriage of Inconvenience

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: G Word Count: 2414 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2025, Selkie AU, small town meet cute, meet weird maybe, cafe owner Hob, Selkie Dream, more examination of the rules of selkie lore than I ever intended

Notes: 'Coat' and 'Accept' right next to each other immediately suggested this idea and then it evolved a bit along the way, as these things always do. Help, I only wanted a cute fluffy one-shot and now I have a whole 'nother universe to play in.

Fluffbruary 2025 prompts: Day 8: train | zenith | road Day 9: accept | icy | ornament Day 10: coat | grimace | paper Day 11: bench | cottage | tough Day 12: backwards | feign | recognize (Yes I've temporarily skipped day 6 and 7; they've been bundled in with the 14th)

Summary: Hob is delighted to see the pretty stranger coming back to his cafe, but he has no idea how his life is about to change

On AO3

"Wait! Please!"

Hob turns at the call to see the beautiful dark-haired guy he'd noticed in the cafe earlier that day jogging down the road toward him, hand raised, clearly waving at him. He pauses in locking up the cafe's front door, silently thanking whoever's in charge of his luck today.

"Can I help you?" he asks, once the guy's close enough they can speak without yelling. He's got his friendliest smile on, willing to hear out whatever this guy has to say. He's just as pretty as Hob remembers, and he's not at all mad about seeing him back again.

"I left. I left something. Property. One of my belongings, when I was here earlier." Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Pretty draws himself up, catching his breath. "I had hoped. To reach you before closing, to see if it is still here."

"Of course, no problem." Hob un-flips the bolt that he hadn't yet pulled the key out of and unlocks the rest, pushes the door open and steps inside.

"Thank you." The guy follows him in, eyes darting to the table where he and his group had sat this afternoon. "My sibling assured me they had my coat when we left, but they did not."

Hob perks up. "Black coat, fur trim?"

"Yes." The guy turns his gaze on Hob, intense and hopeful and oh, but those are some devastatingly blue eyes. "You have seen it?"

"Yeah!" Hob smiles, delighted he can help this pretty stranger after all. "Another customer brought it up to the counter, said it'd been left. I put it up in our lost property in case the owner came back—and here you are! Let me grab it for you."

"No, wait—it would be better if—"

But Hob has already ducked through the door marked 'Employees Only', misses the note of alarm in the guy's voice. He opens the cupboard where lost property is stored and carefully pulls the lovely black coat with its silky fur trim off the hangar he'd put it on earlier, drapes it neatly over his arm and heads back to the front of the cafe. "Here we are!" he says merrily, holding out the coat to his guest.

The guy looks almost disappointed as he takes it with careful hands. "Thank you," he sighs, with relief that somehow also sounds like resignation, and Hob can't help frowning a little.

"Is everything okay? It's not ripped, is it? Oh, gosh, I'm sorry, if it got torn in our care I'll gladly pay to have it mended—"

"It is not. Damaged," the guy interrupts firmly. "It is in excellent condition and was clearly cared for while in your possession. For which I thank you. My husband."

What.

"S-sorry? Your what?" Surely Hob did not hear him correctly.

"My husband," the guy repeats, quite clearly. "I lost my coat. You have returned it to me. You are now my husband."

Hob bursts out laughing. "Right, okay, you're a selkie, then?" He's grown up in this quaint little coastal town, he's heard all the stories; obviously this guy is having him on, a little jest. Surely.

"Yes." The guy's answer, though, is completely serious.

It occurs to Hob he may inadvertently have gotten drawn into this poor fellow's break from reality. Either that or he is an extremely deadpan comedian with a terrible sense for when the joke's gone far enough.

"Selkies aren't real, mate," Hob says carefully, not unkindly, confident in the obvious truth of the words no matter what tales his gran used to tell.

With a sigh, the guy puts on the coat that Hob had returned to him and abruptly, instead of a beautiful pale-skinned dark-haired man, there is a pitch-black seal with shockingly blue eyes on the floor in the middle of Hob's cafe. He starts backwards, not believing what he is very definitely seeing.

The seal shimmies, twists, and then the pretty stranger is standing before him again, swirling the coat back off his shoulders.

"Holy fuck." Hob steps, stumbles backward, sits heavily on one of the stools at the counter. "Okay. Okay, give me. Just a tic." He blinks, stares at the guy, his brain replaying the transformation he'd undeniably witnessed. "You're. Really a selkie. Okay."

"Yes. And now, you are my husband."

"But that's ridiculous! There's no way anyone can possibly think my giving you back your coat constitutes a legally binding marriage!"

"Not on land, perhaps. It is a long-standing tradition among my people."

"But…why? I mean. Surely you don't want to be married to me, to be married to any stranger simply because they were kind enough to return what's yours? How is that any better than being bound to someone who steals your skin?"

"Nevertheless. It is the tradition."

"It's not my tradition!" Hob is feeling more than a little panicked here. Certainly the guy is very pretty; certainly Hob had been of half a mind to ask for his number if the opportunity presented itself but marriage is a very far cry beyond any of that.

What the hell. Seriously.

"Generally. It is considered. Far preferable, to be married to the human who would freely return your skin than the one who would steal it and lock it away." The guy has primly perched himself two stools down the row, leaving a single stool between them.

Considerate, Hob supposes, not to crowd him while he's having his worldview rearranged. Points in Mr. Selkie's favor.

"That makes sense, I get that," Hob says at last, "but why does it have to be marriage at all? Is it strictly tradition, or is there some kind of magical binding going on when humans get hold of your coat?"

"It is. Both, to some degree. You touched my coat, held it, with intent toward me. That leaves a signature, a link between us. In losing something so integral to my existence, I incur a debt to the one who would willingly return it to me. Even without the traditional label of 'marriage', I am now bonded to you in some degree.

"I'm sorry, but that sounds like a shite arrangement for you."

"Yes. It could be."

"So…do I get any say in the matter? Can I release you from the obligation or something? Or. Or is there maybe. Some other way to honor the 'debt' than marrying me?"

"The marriage—the bond—it occurred when you offered my coat and I accepted it back. It is the traditional way. It is already done. I apologize for being so objectionable a spouse."

"Objectionable—I don't know you!" Hob can't keep his voice from rising, feeling just a little hysterical by this point. "And you don't know me! Fuck sake, you—I don't even know your name! And you're just gonna move into my little cottage on the beach with me so we can live happily ever after?!"

"Ideally, yes." He blinks. "My name is Dream."

That's. Okay. What. Hob shakes his head, equilibrium lost. "Has this ever worked out for any selkie you know?!"

"In the old stories? Sometimes. I am the only modern selkie I know who has been foolish enough to be tricked into leaving my coat behind." There is bitterness in his voice now and god help him, Hob's starting to feel a bit of sympathy for the guy.

"Seems a very cruel prank for a sibling to play," he offers. "And you're extremely calm about this whole oops-forced-marriage thing. Tradition be damned for just a second; does it not upset you even a little?"

The selkie—whose name is Dream, apparently—looks at him with those soulful blue eyes, contemplating. "Truthfully, I welcome the promise of escaping my parents' household. Even in so outdated and risk-prone a way as this. They would at least recognize the validity of such a claim—" He straightens abruptly, eyes widening. "…oh. Oh. Perhaps. My sibling. It is perhaps not a prank, after all."

Hob cannot for the life of him keep up with this conversation. "Wait. Wait. Escaping your parents? How old are you?" He looks a young thirty-something, certainly, but what the hell does Hob know about actual selkie physiology, really?

"Well past the age of majority, in my culture and yours. My parents are very traditional in most respects. Their children remain part of their household short of marrying out. My sibling, who found their way to a marriage some time ago, appears to have orchestrated one for me, as I have no prospects at home."

"So, what, your sibling lied about your coat and left it here so you'd get stuck with whoever picked it up?"

"I am beginning to think so, yes."

"Bit daft a way to go about it?"

"Ours is…a complicated relationship."

Hob casts a disbelieving glance at Dream; he can't help it. "What if you'd wound up bound to some creep?"

"I have no guarantee that you are not, as you say, a creep."

"What? No! I'm not, I promise! And again, why would you accept being married when that's the case?!"

"The bond exists regardless, whatever sort of person you may be." Dream shakes his head, black hair fluffing with the motion and despite everything, Hob is still deeply struck by how pretty he is.

"You are dead serious about all of this, aren't you," Hob says, resignation creeping into his tone.

"It is tradition." Dream gazes at him, assessing. "But I would choose to trust the circumstances of my sibling's meddling, in any case." He blinks at Hob, a slow, considering look. "If my husband will have me."

"Hob. My name is Hob Gadling. Short for Robert." Hob can hardly believe he's even thinking about agreeing to this madness, and yet. Here he is. "Sooo, what happens to you if I reject this marriage? You go home in disgrace? You wander the human world abandoned and alone? You die because I broke the bond?"

"The bond will not break simply for being rejected." Dream looks away. "If you spurn me, I will leave, but I will always feel the draw back to you. I would face ridicule and disdain, should I return home, for allowing my coat out of my possession and failing to honor the bond formed by its return. I am already deemed a misfit; such disgrace would only confirm it for those who care to pass judgment."

"Like your parents."

"Yes." He looks resigned to the misery.

Hob's heart thumps, decision made. And okay, yes, maybe he is being a little bit stupid about this, a little too-much-too-fast like usual, but he can't just send Dream away to all that. "Can I perhaps offer a compromise, then."

Dream tilts his head, attention on Hob, listening.

"How about. We go on a date. Can we try a date first?"

"A date."

"Yeah. Y'know. Two interested people meet up, have a meal, do an activity. Learn more about each other, see if they click?"

"I am. Familiar with the concept, yes."

Oh, but that dry snark is so attractive to Hob. He forces his brain to stay on subject. "I'll even—my cottage has a guest room; you can stay there unless you'd rather book a room down the street. I'm willing to get to know you and see how it goes, okay?"

Dream blinks at him, primly flabbergasted, and Hob is delighted to have finally gotten the upper hand in this conversation. Heaven help him, he's starting to like this weird selkie man already.

"Look. You've got circumstances you want to escape. You accidentally got bound to me. Doesn’t have to be a traditional marriage if it's not agreeable to us both. Been thinking about taking on a housemate, anyway. You'll suit. Don't need you to keep house for me or any of that rubbish from the stories; I'm a full grown man who's been looking after himself for years. We'll share chores. You can explore your options for a life on land. Find a job, or something, if you like."

"And what of the bond already between us?"

Hob shrugs. "We can leave romantic possibilities open, if you want to. Like I said—let's try a date. Let's learn a bit about each other. We'll learn plenty living under the same roof already, I'd wager. If romance doesn't feel right, we'll focus on building a friendship. But either way, I'm not going to leave you homeless and rejected and abandoned on land. Let's start from as reasonable a place as the situation allows and see what happens." He offers a smile, warm and sincere. "What do you say?"

Dream is still watching him, intent and contemplative; after a moment, he inclines his head with gracious old-school formality. "I. Will. Accept your compromise, Hob Gadling."

Oh, his full name in that voice, that is dangerous. Hob is still very much interested in dating the guy; he's pretty, he is thus far not a complete arse, and weird as this conversation is it's given Hob a little glimpse of who Dream is as a person and he'd like to learn more.

Which he will have ample opportunity to do, it seems.

"Wonderful!" Hob beams. "I was heading to the shops after locking up here; you're welcome to join me."

"I shall," Dream decides, with the tiniest hint of a smile, and that's it—Hob is officially smitten.

God, but Jo is gonna roast his arse to kingdom come when she finds out about all of this.

Grocery shopping seems entirely too mundane a task to contemplate after the last several minutes but his refrigerator at home is not going to magically restock itself, is it.

He doesn't think selkies have that kind of magic, either.

He isn't going to ask.

He tries very hard to ignore the little voice in his head telling him he's being incredibly stupid. It's not like he doesn't know. Marriage, then cohabitation, then getting better acquainted? That's very much coming at the whole thing backwards.

That other little voice in his head, though, the one that tends to speak for his gut instincts? That one says he's made the right call, backwards or not, as he strolls down the street toward town center with his new selkie husband-slash-housemate trailing beside him and sees the contented little smile still wreathing those rosebud lips.

He hasn't gotten where he is in life by listening to the first voice over the second.

He's not about to start now.

= Started: 2/8/25 Drafted: 2/11/25 Posted: 2/12/25

This is where I stipulate that I don't know how official-traditional the whole 'giving a selkie back their coat means you're married' thing is. I've run across it a few times but usually in like. Tumblr posts and amateur fiction more than compendiums of mythical creatures or collections of folklore and the like. Regardless, it suits my purposes here.

[ralkana]

Dreamling Masterpost

Hi! I have been writing fic for over twenty years, but I've only been writing Dreamling for a few months, so it's a little small yet. I'm hoping it will grow, and I think Dreamling Week is the perfect time to create it!

My fic is all on ao3 here.

Fluffbruary 2024 Fills (collected on ao3 here, or on tumblr at the links below):

Feb 1: Downy (rated G)

Feb 2: Scent (rated G)

Feb 3: Umbrella (rated G)

Feb 4: Lush (rated M)

Feb 5: Rescue (rated M or maybe T)

Feb 6: Dessert (rated G)

Feb 22: Silly (rated G or maybe T for one word)

A Light From the Shadows Shall Spring (here on ao3): Rated T, 2,133 words - Ordinary disaster can befall even an immortal man. (Warning for Major Character Death, but it's Hob, so temporary!)

Come, O Love, Whene'er You May, And You Are Welcome, Welcome (here on ao3): Rated T, 16,500 words - Hob's mysterious stranger has finally returned, and has declared them friends. Now, they have to learn what that means. Or 16,000 words of Hob & Dream getting to know each other. My fic for @mr-sadman's Spring Exchange, written for @starlightervarda.

Some non-fic Dreamling things on tumblr:

I made the Dreamling Lemon Lavender Rosemary biscuits that @softest-punk first wrote about, and then @carnelianmeluha made them, and then @tj-dragonblade also put them in a fic. You can see my attempt here.

Here is the art I had commissioned at Wondercon this year from an amazing artist named Emil Lundmark (that's his IG). I absolutely ADORE IT.

Everyone has been amazing and so kind and welcoming in this fandom and I'm SO HAPPY to be here and writing again! Hopefully there will be more to add here soon!

[valeriianz]

alright so, since you asked for fics, here's my list of recommendations (some of my favs) by each of the authors mentioned here!

The Death of Translation by @landwriter

Hallmark-Adjacent by @moorishflower

Putting Out Fire With Gasoline by @notallsandmen

Feel my body, crack my bones by @chaosheadspace

All These Minor Feelings. by @gabessquishytum

Dream a Dream of a Little Me by @lostelfwriting

Giving Sanctuary by @avelera

Metaphors by @virgo-dream

My Endless Love by @staroftheendless

Disraeli Gears by @quillingwords

The Grandmaster Title (And Reward) by @arialerendeair

Another Word for Ache by @pellaaearien

The Storms of Life by @teejaystumbles

Available by @softest-punk

break me, shake me by @issylra

Fuckboi Hob vs The Endless Family Dinner by @dancinbutterfly

Kind of Blue, a kind of fire by @hardly-an-escape

Let Me Down Easy by... uh, me (since i was tagged lol)

WOO! and a bit more:

Breakthrough On The Kaleidoscope by @fractalspaces

The Zero Hour by @aeon-of-neon

Déjà vu, Déjà connu by @cuubism

A Funeral for a Living Ghost by @littledreamling

just pull on your hair, just pull on your pout by @wordsinhaled

You create me against your lips by @delta-pavonis

Fluffbruary 2023 Fills by @tj-dragonblade

Anyone have any recommendations for Sandman fics for me? Some plot, shipless or Dream/Hob, and beautiful language? I've seen many in this fandom, but haven't followed new stuff coming up in the last few months.

[tj-dragonblade]

[Fluffbruary FIC] You'll Know You're Defenseless

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: G Word Count: 1067 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2025, Turbo Lover AU, Human AU, Mechanic Hob, Rich Guy Dream, floriography, pining, willful failure to communicate

Notes: Another fluff entry for Turbo Lover, though it's a little bittersweet. Title of course from the Judas Priest song that I named the series after.

Fluffbruary 2025 prompts: Day 13: jealous | rose | narrow Day 16: aquamarine | impress | interlude Day 17 : yearn | salty | reality

Summary: Mechanic Hob might. Possibly. Be pining. Just a little bit.

On AO3

There's a florist he passes on his way home from the garage.

Hob slows his stride as he draws even, today.

He is no stranger to looking over the window displays as he walks by, seeing what's new, snapping pics to look up later and cross-reference to flower language websites. Floriography is fascinating, okay, and also. He is not immune to daydreaming about crafting a custom bouquet to give Dream. Calla lilies for his beauty. Ranunculus; 'I'm dazzled by your charms'. Pink carnations; 'I'll never forget you'. Red camellias to say 'You're a flame in my heart'. Some fern fronds for sincerity and fascination. Blue orchids for enchantment, or maybe lavender roses—those would probably coordinate with the reds of the bouquet better. Maybe, if he's really daring, some sunny yellow jonquils for the old-fashioned sentiment 'I desire a return of affections'.

Because yeah. He really does, god help him.

Not that he can just say so.

He could send a bouquet anonymously, of course, from a secret admirer. But maybe that wouldn't mean anything to Dream, who has plenty of money and probably dozens of prospects for romance. Some anonymous bouquet would not impress him, would probably just wind up on a shelf somewhere, unremarked until it wilts, thrown out without another thought—meaningless to Dream.

Even as he thinks it, though, Hob is remembering the way Dream warms toward the smallest signs of affection, the way he blooms when Hob lavishes him with endearments, and he knows it's more likely Dream would obsess over such a bouquet. He would study it, disbelieving of its sincerity, researching the blooms to look for hidden meaning, finding only the message that Hob had meant to send and fixating on the idea that a stranger might feel such things about him but lack the courage to approach him directly.

So, Hob could maybe send a small bouquet. If he saved up a few pounds.

But he doesn't want to send anything anonymously, is the problem. One, there's also the slim chance it might actually set off alarm bells, make Dream worry about stalkers and strangers watching him. Hob doesn't want to accidentally trigger that kind of anxiety. But two, what he really wants…well. He wants to lavish gifts on Dream the way he thinks Dream deserves, wants to send him the biggest bouquet of compliments and swooning sentiment and declarations of intent; he wants to send roses, dozens upon dozens of ruby-red blooms proclaiming his love so loudly that Dream cannot help but see it, know it, feel it.

He definitely doesn't have that kind of money though. He's priced the sort of arrangements he dreams about and they're significantly beyond his modest budget.

And for all that he can see Dream craves affection, he's still…

See.

Dream is so, so very far out of his league. Romantically speaking. Dream's never said or done anything that indicates Hob could be anything more than this casual hookup and hangout arrangement that they've got going on. He gives Hob a taste of finer things and Hob gives him the best sex he could ever want, and they're both happy. It's perfect. It's amicable. It's tidy and delicious and uncomplicated except that Hob and his stupid helpless heart have always got to go falling farther than they ever should, getting attached and invested and—

Fucking—

Love. He's in love with Dream, he can admit it to himself. And it doesn't matter that it'll never be the storybook romance he'd like it to be. It truly doesn't. He can be happy with what he's got, happy being Dream's boy-toy, his favorite bit of rough, his arm- and eye-candy. That's their reality. He can be happy meeting whatever needs Dream will let him; it's better than not having Dream in his life at all. He can yearn all he likes but he can't expect someone as…as everything as Dream would ever truly consider a long-term life with Hob as his partner.

But oh, the florist's shop is calling him today. And maybe…maybe, if he's careful, he can give Dream a tiny, fleeting gift without giving himself away.

~

Hob is waiting at the curb when Dream pulls up outside his flat a couple hours later, the Porsche jerking to a stop in a way that makes Hob wince. He hides his grimace in a welcoming smile; Dream tries his best to follow Hob's advice about operating the manual transmission but ultimately he'd rather just let Hob drive when they're together.

Dream climbs gracefully out of the idling car and Hob stops him as he crosses in front of it, holding up the single red rose he'd picked out at the florist's with its little plastic tube of water and nutrients snug on the cut end.

"For you," he says, lightly, casually, presenting it with a showman's flourish.

"For me?" Dream sounds delighted, takes it delicately, but there is a little crease in his forehead that Hob can't quite interpret.

"Customer Appreciation Day at the shop," he says quickly, easily. "Handed 'em out to everyone who came in. But this little guy was left all alone when we closed up so I thought to myself, y'know, I'll just. Take it for Dream." He grins, his most charming, rakish grin. "So yes, for you. A small token of affection from your favorite bit of rough." He winks.

A little white lie and a little red rose. He's fucked if Dream ever comes to the shop and talks to Matthew and mentions this customer appreciation day Hob's just made up.

Odds are extremely low that would ever happen. But still.

Dream smiles, his mouth tilting up and his eyelashes sweeping down in that way that makes Hob's stomach swoop. "I thank you for thinking of me, Hob Gadling. It is indeed lovely." He touches Hob's arm briefly and continues on to the passenger side of the Porsche.

Hob follows suit, rounding the driver's side, sliding behind the wheel and adjusting the seat, flicking on the signal to pull back out into traffic. There's excitement fizzing in his blood at the message he's just sent, satisfaction at successfully flying it under Dream's radar.

He glances over at Dream as he drives, sees the soft smile on his lips as he buries his nose in the velvety red petals, and Hob's heart thumps happily in his chest.

= Started: 2/15/25 Drafted: 2/16/25 Posted: 2/17/25

Previously in the series, in case AO3 is down: Customer Service With Every Nerve Alive Loyalty Rewards Program Shift to Overdrive Love Machines in Harmony Without Warning Something's Dawning (Listen)

[tj-dragonblade]

[Fluffbruary Fic] Learning From Old Mistakes

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: T Word Count: 1284 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2025, pre-relationship, future fic, a few years post-reunion, we're ignoring comics canon, mild violence

Notes: This could have been fluffier, but. C'est la vie. Possibly could be the same continuity as Mementos, a few years earlier. Maybe I'll come up with a series name and link them later.

Fluffbruary 2025 Prompts: Day 1: dark | defend | wander Day 2 : ocean | jest | patience Day 3 : uncertainty | myth | pause

Summary: Hob and Dream are accosted by a thief on their way home one evening

On AO3

"Hey—!"

Hob pivots abruptly on the pavement, lunges behind Dream, and there is an answering yelp.

Whirling in turn, Dream finds that Hob has caught a would-be thief—an armed one, no less.

"Fuck off!" the thief snarls, swinging at Hob with a small knife and yanking at his captive arm.

"Don't think so," Hob grunts, letting go to catch the fist with the knife in both hands. He twists the weapon up and out, pushing the man back—away from Dream.

David Brown, nineteen years old, Dream ascertains of their assailant. His life has not been kind.

"Leggo! Lemme go!" David is yelling, but Hob is unswayed.

"No, you think you're going to threaten my friend? Oh, you are very much mistaken, kid." Hob's grin is fierce, frightening. They are fifteen minutes or so from Hob's home, still, a relatively quiet part of the city more industrial than not; there is no one around despite the early-evening hour and Hob has backed David into the alley they were passing, pressed him against the wall. "You picked the wrong target."

David is panicking, Dream can see; he had thought them an easy mark—easy to intimidate, easy to rob, and he does not know what to do now that his minimal plan has gone utterly awry. He lashes out, unrestrained fist swinging for Hob's head.

Hob avoids the hit, twists, punches David in the stomach and David goes down, knife falling from his grasp as he tumbles backwards with a cry. Hob is advancing, ready to hit again, but Dream steps in. A breath of his sand and David is out, dropping into a deep slumber sheperded by dreams of peace and plenty.

"That's one way to end it, I suppose," Hob says, tone almost disappointed, his stance relaxing somewhat. He glances back at Dream. "You're alright?"

"What harm do you imagine he might have done me?" Dream lets his amusement color his voice.

"He meant to rob us, Dream."

"I have no pockets to pick, Hob Gadling."

"Yeah, well. Had a knife, didn't he."

"A sizeable blade, certainly, which surely would have wrought terrible injury to one such as I."

Hob rolls his eyes. "Alright, alright, I get it—I need not come to your defense, you're unfathomably beyond human understanding. Just." He glances down at David sleeping on the ground, tugs at his earlobe. "Maybe I think you're worth protecting, is all. Maybe you deserve someone looking out for you just in case your phenomenal cosmic powers get thwarted."

Dream has not forgotten the first time Hob leapt to his defense, with a ready teacup and fists primed to follow; he had been amused then as well, but this time—

Maybe I think you're worth protecting.

Such words are unexpected, and sit warm in Dream's chest.

He will examine this feeling later.

"Damned hoodlums always looking for an easy mark," Hob is muttering, still looking down at David, kicking lightly at one foot.

"He is homeless, and hungry," Dream offers, "and short on choices."

Hob's face goes through several different expressions in the span of a heartbeat, falling into something like resignation. "Ah, hell." He steps back, sighs deeply. "There's better options than this, kid, c'mon." He takes out his wallet, pulls out a card with the New Inn's logo emblazoned across it. "Dream, can you let him wake?"

"Of course." It is barely a thought to draw David's consciousness back up from his realm.

David blinks awake, startles to find Hob crouched beside him.

"Peace, kid," Hob says, before David can speak. "Not interested in hurting you or pressing charges or anything. Here." He offers the card. "Go to this address. Show the barkeep this card. They'll get you a good meal, no charge. If you need a place to stay, they can put you up. If you're interested in finding work, they can help you out. If you need to get clean they can connect you with the right resources."

"…what?" David is blinking, flummoxed, wary.

"Go to the New Inn," Hob says patiently, indicating the card again. "Show this to the barkeep. They can get you a meal and a room for the night. Can help with finding work and getting clean, if needed. My cousin owns the place and the staff are very hands-on with community involvement and stepping up when people need help. I'll put you in a cab, if you like, or you can walk there in about an hour." He waggles the card.

"…Was set to rob you," David says, then, reaching for the card uncertainly, pausing, pulling his hand back halfway. "Why…why would you—?"

"I've been there," Hob says, matter-of-fact. "I remember starving in the streets. I've hurt people for my own survival. A kind hand made a difference to me more than once. Maybe the Inn can be a kind hand for you. At the very least you can get a good meal."

Tentatively, David takes the card.

Hob calls a cab, pays the driver and sends David on his way to the New Inn, which Hob had sold to his 'cousin' two years ago, effectively leaving it in the hands of the loyal long-term staff he'd gathered over the decades he'd called it home. David is wary and tired, jaded, ready for disappointment, but there is a glimmer of hope within the boy all the same.

"Shall we?" Hob asks, offering his arm once David's cab has driven off; a gallant gesture, accompanied by a broad and charming smile, and that warmth in Dream's chest stirs. I think you're worth protecting. He recalls the way Hob had smiled at him after dispatching Constantine's minions, notes how the smile he wears now is softer around the edges but much the same.

"Of course," Dream says, curling his hand into the crook of Hob's elbow, and the warmth in his chest unfurls a little more.

~

Hob can't help the way his smile grows as Dream actually accepts his offered arm. He'll say nothing of it, of course; it wouldn't do to spook him. 1889 was enough to drive that lesson home and he has tempered his approach since then.

He can be a patient man, after all. He has had a lot of practice. He'd waited for Dream after 1989 and been richly rewarded for that faith thirty-odd years later. He's allowed to call Dream 'friend' with all sincerity, now, and with meetings far more frequent than once a century, the last decade or so has been absolutely enlightening. He's learned Dream's name, finally, six hundred years or so into their acquaintance. He's been trusted with the truth of Dream's absence from their last centennial meeting. He's been trusted with some measure of explanation as to Dream's function in the universe, and he even understands some of it. He knows that Dream likes his tea with four spoonfuls of sugar, a splash of milk, and a story when possible. He knows Dream better than he'd ever dared to hope he might by now, lending depth and weight to his easy claim of friendship and honestly? Hob thinks he might be starting to feel a little more than friendship, perhaps, but he's definitely not going to examine that possibility any time soon. What he's got right now is more than enough, is cherished and hard-won, and he has the patience to let it grow as it will for as long as it must.

He places his hand over Dream's tucked into his elbow, delighted to have his old-fashioned offering accepted, to be allowed the touch, to be gifted with Dream's small smile in return; together they stroll on through the evening toward his home.

= Started: 1/31/25 Drafted: 2/2/25 Posted: 2/3/25

[tj-dragonblade]

[Fluffbruary FIC] Without Warning Something's Dawning (Listen)

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: T Word Count: 659 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2025, Human AU, Rich Guy Dream, Mechanic Hob, scent, feelings contemplation, mild Dream-typical angst

Notes: Coming out of left field, we have a surprise fluff entry in the Turbo Lover universe! My brain saw 'green' and 'grey' and went straight to the clothes left on the couch last time around. 'Anticipation' is always an easy theme with this AU as well. Title of course from the Judas Priest song that I named the series after and Dream really ought to take that parenthetical to heart.

Fluffbruary 2025 Prompts: Day 4: green | grey | chess Day 5: anticipation | nonsense | mail

Summary: Dream wanders through his thoughts about Hob

On AO3

It is late afternoon by the time Dream gets to the clothes left in the drawing room. Hob had spent the morning with him lounging in the sunny bay window of the breakfast nook, resplendent in the skimpy teal green dressing gown Dream had gifted him, animatedly discussing literature through the ages. It was a delightful surprise to discover this commonality between them, that Hob was excited to debate the merits of Shakespeare and expound on his favorites from Byron or Chaucer or Austen or Marlowe, and morning had passed into the noon hour before Dream realized it.

Reluctantly then he had retrieved Hob's original clothing from yesterday, from before they had picked up the suit, and once Hob was dressed Dream had driven him home in the Porsche. Or rather, Hob had driven with Dream in the passenger seat, watching how naturally he handled the damned temperamental machine, admiring the flex of his arms and hands as he shifted and steered and sneaking glances at the bright joy in his face.

It warms him even now, back at his quiet and empty house, the Porsche back in the garage, to recall the way Hob had glowed with delight, the grin he sported the whole drive, how right he looked settled in the car that Dream had never felt any true pride in until now.

He likes that Hob is happy driving his car; more specifically, he likes that driving his car makes Hob happy.

He likes making Hob happy.

Hob's happiness brings him happiness.

And he is happy, now, gathering last night's discarded clothing from the green velvet couch, reminded of how it came to be scattered about. He still aches in all the right places, a lingering and welcome memento of their tryst. Hob is so good to him, so giving, indulging anything Dream wants and everything Dream asks of him, with enthusiasm.

They match so perfectly. Dream is forever grateful that he found his way to Matthew's Motor Repairs when the Porsche's clutch went out; Hob is truly the best thing to happen to him in a very long time.

He smiles, picking up Hob's silk shirt, remembering how perfect the vibrant dark teal-green color had looked on Hob, how it burnished the warm tones of his skin and set off the silver threads in his hair—just as Dream had known it would. He drapes the shirt over his arm and lifts the grey suit jacket, shaking it out, bringing the lapels to his face and inhaling. Hob's cologne still clings faintly to the fabric, intertwined with the scent of Hob himself, and Dream feels a rush of anticipation for the next time that he can take it in first-hand, that he can twine himself into Hob's arms and bury his face at the base of Hob's throat, breathe him in, bask in the warmth and the strength of him. The thought curls soft in his stomach and he lets it settle, gathers Hob's trousers and his own rumpled clothing as well, sets it all in a pile. He will have it all delivered to his laundry service to clean and press and return, that he might dress Hob in his lovely ensemble once again, show him off on the town again, bring him home and strip him out of it again.

Hob, he knows, will let him do all of it willingly. Will participate joyously, with warmth and enthusiasm and that beautiful smile, with that bright sparkle in his eye, with heady delight in fulfilling Dream's wishes.

He is more than Dream deserves, and surely Dream will not be able to keep him forever. All things fade; once upon a time he had thought making Alex happy was the key to fulfillment, after all.

But he will keep Hob as long as he can, in whatever way he can and bask in their mutual happiness for as long as he can make it last.

= Started: 2/3/25 Drafted: 2/4/25 Posted: 2/5/25

Previously in the series, in case AO3 is down: Customer Service With Every Nerve Alive Loyalty Rewards Program Shift to Overdrive Love Machines in Harmony

[tj-dragonblade]

[Fluffbruary Fic] Tradition

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: G Word Count: 2404 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2025, pre-relationship, fluff, holidays, baking cookies

Notes: Originally, this was for Week 2 of @mr-sadman's SeasonalSadman2024 event, using the prompt Traditions. But it didn't want to flow for seasonal timeliness so I put it aside and slated it for the end of Fluffbruary instead. And it turns out, all it needed was a rest and some breathing room. Inspiration came from both @chaosheadspace and @carnelianmeluha 's creator threads on the server, so I will dedicate this to both of you ❤️ Even if it's February now.

Fluffbruary 2025 prompts: Day 22: bullet | loyalty | unique Day 27: kitchen | bell | sun Day 28: clean | galaxy | keep

Summary: Dream shares his time and Hob shares his stories, and together they are maybe sharing something else.

On AO3

"Dream! You're just in time!"

Dream hesitates, abruptly concerned that he had forgotten an appointment and somehow managed to keep it serendipitously—but no. He is very certain that he was not expected here today.

'Here', as it turns out, is Hob's kitchen, where the watery winter daylight streams through the window over the sink and Hob is wrestling a large mound of dough into an enormous mixing bowl. There is another mound set by on the worktop; Hob's sleeves are rolled up in a very fetching manner, his hair is mostly contained in a small knot on the back of his head, and he's wearing an apron that proclaims him World's Okayest Baker in garish pink letters. There are smears of the rich brownish dough all over it, matching smears on Hob's arms and hands, and the room is fragrant with spices—cardamom, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger.

Dream cocks his head the slightest bit. "In time for what?" It is easy enough to intuit; the kitchen is replete with wisps of daydreams that whisper the answer, but 'making biscuits' is merely the title of the story, not the full depth of it which Dream would hear in Hob's own words.

"Making biscuits!" Hob smiles broadly at him, warm and full of life. "School has a tradition, faculty bakes treats for the students before term lets out for Christmas. Some folks buy in from the fancy bakeries 'cause they don't know their way around the kitchen, but me I like to do it from scratch." He sets aside the bowl. "And I like to make extra. Student body's small enough, we're not some big university, but I like doing my part to make sure there's enough to go round."

"Indeed." Dream's coat and boots disappear to their places by Hob's front door as he adjusts his manifestation to better suit the shape of the afternoon before him.

"Sooo, I was doing my baking today—and I'd love to have your help, if you're here for a visit and don't mind something so menial."

"It is no such thing, Hob Gadling." Dream offers a tiny smile. "I would be honored to assist the 'world's okayest baker' with a task so important."

Hob glances down at his well-used apron and laughs. "Ah, yes. The apron lies, I'll have you know—I am nothing short of a fantastic baker after all these years. It was a gift from Jaime, a joke." He shakes his head fondly, the barest hint of melancholy crinkling the corners of his eyes.

Dream is certain he could follow the thread of the name and its connection to Hob to the Dreaming, bring full awareness of this dreamer to the fore, but again—there is comfort and camaraderie in hearing the stories of Hob's life as Hob would tell them, directly. So he chooses instead to offer question.

"A former lover?" He is reasonably certain he would know if Hob were currently involved with anyone.

"Yeah." Hob's expression has gone nostalgic. "Dated a couple years, lived together awhile; ended it about five months before you came back. Jaime had a once-in-a-lifetime job opportunity, moved to Toronto. And, well, I wasn't leaving London, was I? Not when I was still waiting for you." He smiles, and it is tinged with…not sadness, precisely, but something that is soft and wistful and commiserative.

The heart that Dream has approximated thumps heavily in his breast. "My absence cost you this relationship—"

"No, no no, now, none of that," Hob interrupts, speaking over his shoulder as he turns to wash his hands. "It was lovely while it lasted but we both knew how it would end, sooner or later. Jaime was meant for grander things than me, and, well. All my relationships have to end one way or another, don't they." He turns off the tap and dries his hands, flashes Dream a brilliant grin and a quick wink. "'Cept ours, of course. Can always count on seeing you again, my friend."

"Of course," Dream echoes, inordinately warmed by how easily Hob centers Dream in his life, welcomes him. Broadly, as he has just spoken, yes; Dream is assured that Hob's delight in his company is genuine. But also, specifically, how easily he makes room for Dream in whatever he is doing when Dream visits without notice. He has demonstrated time and again that Dream's presence is appreciated, and no burden; that Dream is important enough that Hob will shape his plans around Dream as needed, will include him at a moment's notice.

It is. Gratifying, to receive such regard, from one who is neither his subject nor seeking to curry favor.

Dream is never quite certain what to do with it.

"But anyway!" Hob opens a drawer and rifles through it briefly, withdrawing a rolling pin and setting it aside. "These Christmas biscuits have been a tradition of mine even before Jaime, and I'm glad the school gives me an excuse to keep it going. I'm making the lemon rosemary lavender ones that you like next—they're very popular every year—and chocolate candy cane if I have the time after that. But first! Gingerbread." He turns to the fragrant mahogany dough on his worktop and begins pushing and kneading at it, working it into a somewhat flatter shape.

"I always make two batches," he says, as he moves to apply the rolling pin to the reworked dough. "One for stars and rounds, one for proper gingerbread men. Once I get this rolled out, d'you want to start with the cutters?" He nods toward a small assembly of metal and plastic shapes at the other end of the bench.

"Of course." Dream is pleased to take part in this creative process, in whatever way Hob can find use for him.

"Great, then I can start working the other batch on the table while you do." He's rolling vigorously, a steady rhythm molding the dough to his wishes, bared forearms flexing in a way that Dream finds somehow difficult to look away from.

"Is this a recipe of your own devising?" Dream is eager, he finds, to hear more of this story of Hob's traditions.

"Oh no, no, this is Oma Franziska's gingerbread recipe." Hob has that fondly-nostalgic look again. "She insisted we call her that, me and Jim. She'd lost contact with her own grandkids when she left Germany, you see, and she sort of adopted us when we moved in next to her. She knew Jim's truth, too, and it was nice to have a neighbor who he could be himself with."

Hob has told Dream of Jim previously. Jim, who had been Hob's wife Peg to the rest of the world but Hob's husband in safe company; Jim, who had loved the sea, who sang bawdy pub songs with the loveliest voice, who left Hob with many fond memories and stories to carry with him as he continued living.

"She looked after us both, in a fashion. Knew her way around the kitchen blindfolded and backwards—I'm very sure food was her love language. Always made sure the neighbors were fed if they needed and was just—she was really something, y'know? I'm glad I got to know her." Hob gives the dough a final roll with a flourish. "Stayed put until she passed, even though I was kind of pushing it for that lifetime. I didn't want to leave her behind when she had so little time left, especially when she'd been there for me after losing Jim and all of that."

"Your kindness does you credit." Dream is warmed by the tale, by yet another glimpse of the man Hob had worked to become in the past century.

"Heh." Hob beams at him, and something low in Dream's stomach tightens marginally. "Anyway, Oma Franziska loved sharing recipes with us—sending her traditions forward, she called it—and I've kept 'em alive for her. This gingerbread is based on an older recipe, but she tinkered with it quite a lot and clearly she knew what she was about; these biscuits always get rave reviews." He turns, plucks two of the biscuit cutters from the jumble on the counter and presents them to Dream. "Here you go."

Dutifully, Dream accepts the cutters and moves to the rolled-out dough, the collective unconscious granting easy familiarity with a task he has never performed.

"Perfect," Hob declares, as Dream begins pressing the simple shapes neatly into the dough. "Let me get your tray prepped so you've got somewhere to set these little beauties as you go."

Something deep in Dream warms at the easy praise, pleased and content; he lets the feeling wash over him as he works, as Hob sets a lined baking tray in easy reach and begins rolling out the second batch over on the table, as Hob continues talking.

"I love this recipe," Hob says, and Dream can hear how he's smiling even though his back is turned. "They turn out just the right amount of soft with a lovely balance of flavors, and they're exactly sweet enough. Gotta start it early to give it plenty of time to 'ripen', for the lactic acid to do its thing, but it's very much worth it. This batch I started about a month ago so they'd be ready now. And the biscuits themselves will keep at least 'til February, assuming they last that long."

"You deem them worth the effort," Dream surmises, arranging the biscuits he has cut on the baking sheet.

"Mmyep, definitely. Especially when I'm making them to share with others."

Dream can still hear the way Hob is smiling, and it warms him. Hob has such care for the people in his life, for those he sheperds and those he works beside; Dream is grateful to witness it, to be included in that care, for the ready welcome he continues to find in Hob's company.

"The time taken is to their benefit," he offers, transferring more cut biscuits to their tray. "The dreams sown into the dough are rich, and deeply rooted. They have grown robust, being let to steep so long; your biscuits will be a masterpiece of comfort and flavor."

"There's. Dreams. My dreams? In the dough?" Hob sounds particulary flummoxed; Dream looks up to find him turned about, blinking dumbfounded at him, rolling pin held idle in one hand.

"Yes." Dream lays another gingerbread star on his tray. "Your intent, your joy in sharing, your delight in doing for others. Your wish to carry the memories of the recipe forward. They all shape your baking, enhance your end result."

"Heh. I had no idea." The tips of Hob's ears have reddened considerably and there is a trace of pink visible across his cheeks.

It becomes him.

Hob blinks, shakes his head, recovering his composure. "Bet all the dreams in the dough won't save them from burning, though." He grins.

"Most certainly not," Dream allows, smiling in turn. "We shall need to time them appropriately. I can assist, if you like."

Hob has turned back to finish his rolling, speaks over his shoulder. "How's that work, then? You'll listen to the dreams as they bake, and know when they're perfectly done based on vibes?"

"Perhaps, if you think it best." Dream can feel his smile growing. "I had thought I might simply watch the timer."

Hob has stopped and turned to stare at him again; Dream reaches to take the rolling pin and use it himself. He lets the smile on his face remain, lets it be known to Hob.

"You're making jokes now?" Hob grins widely, eyes crinkling with mirth, his tone one of wonder. "Red letter date! Best mark my calendar."

Dream, flush with pleasant warmth at the easy teasing, turns back to roll his scrap dough into a flat sheet, delighting in the little chuckle Hob gives as he begins stamping the simple stylized human shapes into his own sheet of dough.

The day passes pleasantly, gingerbread baking fragrantly while they move on to the next biscuit on Hob's planned list; Hob prepares the shortbread dough while Dream monitors time on the oven. It is very much a matter of 'vibes' that lets him pull each tray at exactly the right moment, transferring them to cooling racks, setting the pans aside to be prepared for their next batch. They roll out and cut the lavender lemon rosemary biscuits next, and since Dream is sharing the labor there is plenty of time to make the chocolate candy cane ones as well.

They clean up behind the baking and Hob prepares lunch while the biscuits are all cooling; once they have eaten, they move on to decorating. Dream is given the gingerbread and loses himself in the flow of creativity, piping swirls of colorful icing onto the stars and rounds, applying edible glitter and sugar pearls with a discerning eye while Hob smears chocolate icing and sprinkles crushed candy cane bits on the chocolate biscuits. Together they finish up with the gingerbread men, adding eyes and mouths and clothes in wide variety, each distinctly unique. Dream can feel as they work how Hob's daydreams float and shift around them, how intent has settled into the biscuits at every stage of the process, even here at the end.

He can taste it, as well, when he and Hob sample their work after finishing.

It is little wonder Hob's biscuits are popular at the school's annual function. They are, quite literally, made with love.

~

When he visits Hob again in February, he is presented with one of the gingerbread men they had made in December, carefully kept in an airtight container.

"Saved the last one for you." Hob winks, and Dream's stomach dips pleasantly.

The biscuit is indeed as good as it had been two months prior, ripe with the care baked into it, sweet and fragrant and satisfying on a level far beyond the physical. Dream nibbles, listens while Hob regales him with the story of the student love letter he'd accidentally intercepted on Valentine's day, basks in the comfortable warmth of Hob's voice and Hob's presence and Hob's home.

And somewhere, deep within the core of himself, he acknowledges the truth that he can taste in the biscuit, even now: that some of the care and the love that have gone into their creation, is very much specifically for him.

= Started: 12/12/24 Drafted: 2/23/25 Posted: 2/28/25

[tj-dragonblade]

[FLUFFBRUARY FIC] Love, Rain Down on Me

Rated: T Word Count: 2272 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2024, fluff, human AU, writer!Dream, professor!Hob, stargazing, care packages, acts of service, kisses in the rain, realizations, confessions, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus loves Hob Gadling, Hob Gadling loves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, 5+1 fic

Notes: Final entry for Fluffbruary 2024; turns out I wasn't done with this Umbrella Boys AU just yet. Shoutout to @academicblorbo for asking about Dream's pov and suggesting the first 'I love you' as an idea; my brain said 'Oh yes' 1489-Hob-style and while this is not exactly what I first envisioned, I'm still happy with where we ended up.

Fluffbruary Prompts: Day 25: fox twilight sweat Day 26: fluff woolly care package Day 27: table blush laundry Day 28: reward shelter piano Day 29: breakfast valley sign alt prompts: wish hot solid

Summary: 5 times those Three Little Words go unspoken, and one time they do not

On AO3

1. The first time Dream realizes it, Hob has taken him to the astronomy department at the college, after hours, to look at the stars. "Gale lent me the key," Hob had laughed when Dream expressed trepidation about breaking into Hob's place of work. "I'm allowed to come moon over the stars sometimes, and I'm allowed to bring you with me if I want."

So they are taking turns looking through the telescope, peering into the perpetual twilight of the heavens and marveling at the beauty that cannot be properly seen with the naked eye nor from within the light-polluted aura of the city. Hob laughs when Dream observes as much. "Maybe come end of summer we'll take a drive out of the city, camp out for a night in the countryside and do some real stargazing. Sound good?"

And Dream looks at him, this beautiful man squinting up at the skies through his colleague's telescope, the way his hair falls around his face, the scruff of his three-week-old beard and the elegant line of his nose, this beautiful man who offers anything he thinks Dream might like as if it's nothing. Hob has shared with him the woes of past breakups, the consensus that he is too intense, moves too fast, is too much to put up with, and he has admonished Dream to please please tell him if he ever oversteps or pushes too hard, too far because he is trying to do better, but all Dream can think in this moment is how warm he feels in Hob's affections, how priveleged to receive his time and attention.

I love this man, he realizes, like camellias blossoming beneath his ribs, like the sun breaking over the horizon.

"Dream?" Hob is looking at him now instead of the stars, eyebrows raised, mouth curved in a patiently-amused smile.

"That. Would be lovely," Dream answers at last, smiling warmly back at Hob, and cradles his newfound revelation close in the hollow of his chest.

2. The second time, Hob is away at a conference and Dream has emerged from a morning of fitful writing to discover a neatly-wrapped package delivered for him, tied with a ruby red bow. His sister has brought it up and left it by his door rather than interrupting his writing time, as they've agreed. Upon opening it, he finds a letter from Hob atop an airtight plastic container.

Hey Dream, reads the letter, just wanted to say that I'll miss you while I'm gone and can't wait to lavish you with sweet kisses when I get back. Meantime, I made you some of those lavender-rosemary-lemon biscuits you love and here's my shirt you can sleep with if you want. Enjoy ~♥

Delighted by the package and the letter and the biscuits, and the intent behind them, Dream lifts the container out of the box; beneath it, there is a compact umbrella nestled in what turns out to be one of Hob's favorite t-shirts, worn just enough to smell like him. Dream presses it to his face and inhales, absurdly touched, and smiles as he picks up the umbrella.

Of course Hob has sent him an umbrella; that is their 'thing', that is how they met, and he is also terrible at remembering to bring one with him. Tied to the handle he finds a piece of card stock about the size of his palm, with a drawing penciled on one side. It's a rough cartoon figure that is recognizably Hob, smiling brightly and holding a sunny yellow cocktail umbrella that has been carefully attached through the card so that Hob's penciled hand appears to grasp the toothpick handle. Don't forget! says his speech bubble, and Dream feels tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as his smile grows too wide for his face to contain.

I love you, Hob Gadling, he thinks, both hands wrapped around the umbrella, and presses his lips gently to cartoon-Hob's precious happy little face.

3. "You did not have to do my washing, Hob," Dream protests, somewhat futilely as the deed is already done, dried, and being folded. "I am a grown man, capable of doing my own laundry." Never mind that his clothes had been accumulating in Hob's flat all week while he worked through additional revisions to The Seeds of Fate; Hob's space was conducive to this particular story, he found, and Hob was generous in allowing him to hole up here during the day while Hob was at work and on into the evenings when he returned, overnight when Dream wished it.

Hob shrugs. "They were here, I had a load of darks, they fit. Don't worry, my washing powder's the allergy-free stuff and I checked your tags for temps and such. Which reminds me." He sets the black jeans he just folded aside, takes up a pair of his own. "Your fancy lace shirt's hanging in the shower; hand washed it in cold just like it said and put it up to drip-dry."

Dream is keenly struck by the soft warmth of Hob choosing to do mundane everyday chores for him, taking care with his things, simply because he wants to and he can. It is not new, by any means; Hob has engaged in little acts of service the whole of the time Dream has been acquainted with him, from the very moment he first offered shared use of his umbrella to Dream. The domesticity of this moment settles something deep within him, something that sings of home and happiness and contentment.

"Hob Gadling, you are a chivalrous and wonderful man," he says, when what he means is I love you. "Truly, you make my life so much easier." He comes close, presses a kiss to Hob's cheek.

Hob just smiles, soft and warm and pleased, and continues folding his laundry. "You're welcome, duck. My pleasure."

4. "Here, take ours," Hob says, handing his umbrella to the woman with the toddler at the bus stop as the skies open up.

"Oh I couldn't!" Her eyes dart from the umbrella (which Hob is of course holding over her and her child) to Dream and back to Hob. "That's very kind, but then you'll get soaked!"

"We're not far," Hob assures, pressing the umbrella into her hand. "I insist. We'll be fine."

"Well…if you're quite certain?" She clutches it gratefully.

"Of course. Take care." Hob offers a friendly smile, the kind that makes his nose scrunch up adorably, and they turn to leave.

"Thank you!" the woman calls after them.

Dream finds that he doesn't mind the rain, is not inclined to run for shelter, not with Hob beside him, not when their getting soaked is because Hob does not hesitate to offer kindness to strangers. It gives him a warm glow inside, to know that he loves a man who works to put kindness out into the world, to brighten the days of those around him when he can. Damp clothes and wet hair are a small price to pay, and the summer rain is not so cold.

Halfway to Hob's flat, Dream steps around in front of him and drapes his arms behind Hob's neck. "That was a very kind thing you did," he murmurs, stepping backwards, drawing Hob with him so they do not stop moving onward. It is very much like a slow sort of dance down the street, and Hob's arms wrapping about his waist only heighten that impression.

"Yeah?" Hob shrugs, smiling. "She needed it." Like it is truly that simple.

To Hob, it is.

Dream kisses him, pressing close while the rain falls upon them. "Not many would give up their own comfort for a stranger." His lips brush Hob's with the words and then Hob is drawing him back in, warm, hungry. Dream fancies he can taste the rain, between them.

"Not a hardship, not when I've got you to keep me company," Hob finally says, nipping softly at his lips, water dripping steadily from a loose lock of hair.

"Such things you say." Dream is intoxicated with the moment, the atmosphere, the swelling of feeling he holds for this man and the tender warmth in Hob's eyes gazing back at him while the skies wash the world around them in soft hazy grey.

I love you, he thinks, kissing Hob again, pulling him close in the falling rain, I love you, I love you, I LOVE you—

5. He thinks it next when he is tangled with Hob in his bed, breathless and sweating and coming apart in Hob's practiced hands, when every time Hob moves within him he is crying out, starlight bursting behind his eyes.

He thinks it as Hob shivers to a halt, pulsing hot inside him, trembling in his arms.

He thinks it laying in Hob's embrace after, Hob's chest solid and warm beneath his ear, rising gently with each of Hob's sleeping breaths. I love you, I love you, I love you, he whispers in his head, in time with the steady beat of Hob's heart, and lets himself drift to sleep, content.

One day, one day when the moment is right, he will say it aloud; until then, he hoards it like a precious secret safe in his heart.

+1 Dream wakes on Sunday with a groan, protesting the sunbeams that have found his face; they had not closed Hob's bedroom curtains last night and he is paying the price for this oversight now.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," Hob says, leaning on one elbow beside Dream with his head propped in his hand. He is supremely unbothered by the brightness, leading Dream to surmise he awoke some time ago.

"You are watching me sleep, now? You will not convince me that it is entertaining." He blinks once, twice, his eyes still heavy with sleep.

"Entertaining is not the word, no, but I do enjoy it. You're so pretty when you're asleep, soft and relaxed and at peace. I love that I get to see it." Hob smiles, reaches to trace a fingertip down his cheekbone. "Was trying to decide what to make you for breakfast, actually."

Dream squirms onto his back, throws an arm over his eyes, stretches his toes. "You need not make such effort—" He cuts himself off with a jaw-cracking yawn.

"You're worth it, though," Hob says easily, and Dream rolls his head to the side, meets Hob's eyes again. The sun is striking them exactly right, illuminating the depths of the brown to amber, honey.

He is so beautiful.

"Very well." Dream smiles, indulgent, lazy. "What will you be offering to please my discerning palette?"

"Fry you up an egg and a couple slices of bread? Tomato too, if you want. Blueberry jam for your toast and your sweet tooth. And if you're hungry enough, a nice hot juicy sausage?" He waggles his eyebrows.

Dream arches one of his own in return, and Hob grins. "Yeah alright, that's for later. But I will cook you actual sausage too if you like."

"I will take actual sausage with breakfast, yes, and 'sausage' when I am awake enough to enjoy it." He swings himself out of Hob's bed and makes his way to the toilet, the warm sound of Hob's laughter following him.

By the time he wanders into the kitchen, having donned his pants and a t-shirt of Hob's, bare feet and bare legs and bare arms because he's comfortable and because he knows Hob likes it, Hob has sausages and tomatoes frying in one pan with eggs and bread in another. He's tied an apron over his bare chest and joggers, captured most of his hair in an elastic band, is whistling cheerfully over the stovetop with a spatula in hand. The kettle is going, and Dream retrieves two mugs from the cupboard.

He preps Hob's tea once it's steeped, a quarter the milk and sugar that he puts in his own, and offers it to Hob to taste once he's finished plating their breakfast.

"Perfect," Hob pronounces, handing it back and picking up the plates to carry to the table. "Why's it always taste best when you make it?"

"I infuse it with my charming personality," Dream quips, deadpan, and Hob huffs a laugh.

"God, I love you," he says, his smile still broad, bright enough to rival the morning sun outside the kitchen window; and then he stills.

Dream, too, has gone still; Hob has never said those words to him before, and it sets something joyful and effervescent singing through his veins.

Hob loves him.

Hob loves him.

But Hob is shrinking in on himself, just a little, as if he could hide behind the plates in his hands and the apron he wears—every inch the man who fears (too much too fast I always come on too strong) the consequence of words he had not intended to speak aloud. Dream will be sad about this later, that he has failed somehow to make clear to Hob beyond the shadow of any doubt how welcome his affections are, how endearing his intensity, and he will vow to do better; but now, in the moment, with his heart soaring, the solution is simple, so simple, as easy as breathing.

He has never said the words aloud either, but they are as familiar to him as the beating of his own heart and they are spoken with as little effort.

"And I love you, Hob Gadling." He leans over the corner of the table, kisses Hob soft and sweet on his blossoming smile. "Now, where is my blueberry jam?"

= Started: 2/26/24 Drafted: 2/29/24 Posted: 2/29/24

The lavender-rosemary-lemon cookies were first written by @softest-punk and then brought to life by @carnelianmeluha; you can find the original fic and the recipe via this link One day I will brave my utter dearth of kitchen skill and make these myself. One day.

[tj-dragonblade]

[Fluffbruary Fic] Andante Affettuoso

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: G Word Count: 1597 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2025, future fic, introspection, confessions, first kiss

Notes: Andante: At a moderately slow tempo Affettuoso: With affection and tenderness Musical Accompaniment: Andante Affettuoso by Brian Crain ft YuJeong Lee

Fluffbruary 2025 prompts: Day 6: declaration | gregarious | duet Day 7: hand | curls | pattern Day 14: voice | swim | quaint Day 15: kettle | wonder | twist (We have skipped over day 13 so it can be pulled in with day 16)

Summary: Five years after their initial reunion, Dream has come to the New Inn on Valentine's Day with specific words in mind.

On AO3

It is pleasantly warm in the New Inn, cozy in their corner, exactly as it has been every winter for the last five years. Dream has grown accustomed to the routine of it, comfortable in the familiarity of sitting at this table with Hob, wine and conversation shared between them; it is a tradition they have built, one Dream should greatly mislike to be without.

This night, as always, the conversation flows more heavily from Hob. His voice is so very pleasant, mild and full of soft strength, warmly colored by his smile and robust with the life infusing his stories and Dream is. Mesmerized, more so than usual. He nearly feels drunk, and it is not the wine. Alcohol does not intoxicate him if he does not wish it; he has been drinking slowly regardless. It is Hob's presence, Hob's voice, Hob's easy joy in the time Dream spends with him, that have Dream feeling light, effervescent. Comfortable.

Happy.

It is a novel thing, still, to realize how fully content he is in such moments.

He would wish for it to continue indefinitely.

Hob is a natural storyteller, gifted in spinning his words; Dream has always enjoyed listening to him. Or. Not always, perhaps, but he had grown to recognize Hob's gift over their centennial meetings. And. Having rekindled their acquaintance after escaping his prison, having accepted Hob's original declaration of friendship at last, having altered the course of the story between them by returning mere months later, he has had opportunity to experience it far more frequently.

It is a blessing.

He had missed much, while locked in the basement of Fawney Rig. Reconnecting to the collective subconscious had backfilled the missing space, but it is Hob's stories that imbue it with texture, that color the finer details, that lend depth and perspective to the broad shapes of it. Hob has told him, with such enthusiasm, of all his favorite things about the past century. Things that Dream had seen the start of and things he had not. Photography. Electricity. Telephones. Moving pictures. Motor vehicles. Vaccinations. Refrigeration and grocery shops. Television. Space travel. The internet. The rapid advance of these technologies Hob speaks of still with bright-eyed awe befitting the man he'd been so many centuries prior, the unmitigated joy that a simple common peasant gets to see such wonders in the world—and the unspoken anticipation of what unknown wonders are yet to come.

The world had not been all brilliant advancements while Dream was held captive, of course, but Hob is unrelentingly optimistic. It is refreshing, where Dream himself so often tends toward dour and serious and. Expectant, of disaster, to be faced with a friend who is instead full of life and hope and enthusiasm for whatever the future may bring.

It is refreshing, to have a friend. Full stop.

Visiting with Hob has been a most welcome addition to Dream's existence, these past few years. He sometimes finds himself lamenting his earlier adherence to the once-a-century schedule; he might have been enjoying Hob's company far more often far sooner had he been open to it and the realization feels like something lost. But he does not think Hob would agree, were he to speak such thoughts aloud. He imagines Hob would laugh it off with that light and easy acceptance that Dream has come to treasure, would counter with his warm and welcoming smile that they've all the time in the world before them to make up for it.

Dream. Is very fond of Hob's smile.

He is. Very fond, of Hob.

He. Is more than fond of Hob, if he is to be entirely truthful with himself.

Which is, in part, his purpose in coming here on Valentine's Day specifically.

"There I go doing all the talking again!" Hob laughs, a light and merry sound, no self-deprecation in it at all. They both know the shape of their friendship; they both are content to let Hob shoulder the bulk of the conversational weight and Dream knows he is welcome to interject at any point. That Hob will eagerly listen to anything he might like to say. Hob's comments of this sort are a pause, an opening offered in case Dream feels like speaking in turn.

And tonight, he does.

"You are indeed. Exceptionally gregarious, Hob Gadling," he offers, with enough of a smile to ensure his words ought not be misconstrued as displeasure. "It is fortunate that I find it appealing."

Hob blinks, visibly taken off-guard by the statement. "O-oh?"

There is a faint touch of pink rising to his cheeks, if Dream is not mistaken.

This bodes well for Dream's intentions.

"Yes. Your stories give me succour, as your devotion has given me. Shelter, from the harshness of my own thoughts." He draws himself up, leans in the slightest bit, marginally closer to Hob. "I look forward to your company, Hob; to your stories, your smiles, your presence." He is watching Hob's face as he speaks, his words carefully considered for days on end leading to this moment; he is keen to see how they land.

The color in Hob's face does not abate.

It is very becoming.

"Have you any idea," he continues, reaching slowly across the corner of the table between them, delicately picking up Hob's hand, thrilling to the feel of Hob's skin against his, "how very rare it is that I. Anticipate. Anything? How infrequently, I have enjoyed anyone's company to the point of seeking them out?" He holds Hob's gaze, steady, intense. "I would have you know. How singular you are."

The sight of Hob Gadling rendered fully speechless is a novelty; Dream is quietly delighted by the way his mouth hangs half-open, the wide-eyed stare, the light flush still suffusing his face.

He is beautiful.

Dream is sufficiently confident that Hob will receive his words favorably; he would not have ventured to speak them in the first place were he not. Still, he must curb the tendrils of apprehension that twist through him, now that he has broached the subject. Should his careful overture be rejected—

But Hob, his Hob, does not disappoint.

"Dream. I." He cracks a smile, brief, awkward, but sincere and bright as the sun. "I-I'm honored. I. I look forward to our meetings too, to any time spent with you. More than I can say." His hand flexes minutely in Dream's hold. "I know—I know you have so, so many things that you must tend to, things far grander than my little misadventures in immortality, and it means so much that you spend any of your precious time on me. Seeing you is forever the highlight of my day."

Dream lets the warm flood of relief wash through him, the affirmation of his welcome, of Hob's regard. He folds his hand gently beneath Hob's, holding those slender sturdy fingers in a chivalrous grasp; he lifts his eyes to Hob's, helplessly drawn in. Here at their table he is sheltered from the buzz and press of humanity all around, each caught up in their own minutiae, oblivious to anything he might say to his Hob. It is safe, here in their corner, to express anything he likes.

"Hob Gadling. The time I treasure most is the time I spend with you. And. With your leave." He lifts Hob's hand, barely grazes his lips over Hob's knuckles, still holding his gaze. "I would court your attentions for something. More than friendship."

"Oh. Dream." Hob's pupils are blown wide, his voice breathless, and his face is alight with something far more transcendent than simple joy. "You're. Are you asking me out?"

It is. So mundane a phrase for something which feels entirely more momentous than such simple words allow. But. He is very certain that is precisely why Hob has said it.

"If we must employ the modern parlance. Yes."

"On Valentine's, no less?" Hob is grinning, shining with happiness and the barest hint of mischief, the lingering shadow of the rogue who'd boldly declared he simply wasn't going to die all those centuries ago.

Dream allows himself the tiniest smirk. "It seemed. A fitting opportunity. Traditional."

Hob gives a little scoff. "Traditional in the modern parlance, of course. I'm older than a great many of these customs."

"Of course."

"And you're older than all of them, heh. Significantly."

"Indeed."

"Well." Hob has made no attempt to withdraw his hand from Dream's; his eyes are shining with emotion and sincerity as his mirth fades. "Dream of the Endless, my old, dear friend. My oldest friend. My dearest friend. If you wish to be more, then I. I should like that very much."

Dream inclines his head, quiet joy curling at the corners of his mouth, unfurling within him like the fluttering wings of a fledgling dove. "Then. My heart, such as it is, is yours to claim."

The wonder in Hob's face is beautiful to behold, a perfect mirror to the wonder that he himself feels to know that he might have this. That he might be permitted such happiness.

"Dream," Hob says softly then, "please." His hand in Dream's curls gently, grasps in return, and he leans closer. "May I kiss you?"

Everything in Dream thrills to the idea, to the reverent way that Hob asks; he leans marginally more forward himself, draws Hob in with their joined hands.

"You may," he breathes, as if he is not aching for it himself, already tilting in, a handsbreadth from letting his lips touch Hob's.

And so, at last, Hob kisses him.

= Started: 2/5/25 Drafted: 2/14/25 Posted: 2/15/25

[tj-dragonblade]

[FLUFFBRUARY FIC] A Sweet Romance Beginning In a Queue

Rated: T Word Count: 4551 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2024, fluff, human AU, rain, writer!Dream, professor!Hob, song-based meet-cute, clumsy metaphors

Notes: This is springboarding entirely from Bus Stop by The Hollies; shoutout to @valeriianz for suggesting this song would make a great Dreamling fic many many months ago. I thought Fluffbruary Day 3 would be a good opportunity to bang it out real quick but uh. It didn't want to flow, so I've just been rolling additional days into it all month. Also went a wee bit off-script from the song but. I'm pleased enough with what it's turned out to be. Prompts listed at the end.

Summary: Bus stop, wet day, he's there, I say, 'Please share my umbrella'

On AO3

It's the first day of the new term and the sky is overcast, threatening rain as Hob steps off the bus at his connecting stop. He's got his umbrella and his overcoat and his bag is water-resistant; his stop on the other end is very near the college and he's feeling well-prepared should the weather follow through on its threat.

Which of course it does, not half a minute later, and Hob deploys his umbrella with a sigh. There are a handful of other people waiting at the stop who do the same.

And one who does not.

He's pale and pretty, and tall, and dark—dark trousers, dark peacoat, dark hair, which is well on its way to getting thoroughly soaked as the skies open up in earnest. He appears to be lacking an umbrella entirely. Hob, who these days makes conscious effort to be a Good Samaritan whenever he can, and who also maybe thinks that attractively-pale men dressed in black who forget their umbrellas are worth at least a 'hello', moves quickly.

"Share my umbrella? Please." He's holding it over the guy as he speaks, but they'll have to squish up a bit to get maximum benefit for either of them.

"…Thank you," the guy says, shuffling closer; their shoulders touch. He is stiff, awkward, and yeah okay Hob can understand; courtesy in rainy weather or not, they're still complete strangers.

"Hell of a day to forget your umbrella, yeah?" Hob rolls his shoulders and shifts, putting himself more or less back-to-back with the guy so they fit better.

"Quite," comes the answer. His voice is low and rumbly, pleasantly dark without being bass-deep; it's oddly appealing.

Hob shrugs. "We've all been there. And hey, I'm glad to share."

"Again. Thank you." There's a touch more warmth this time, and Hob smiles to himself.

They pass a moment in silence, save for the drumming of rain against the umbrella and the splashing of cars in the street, and then the bus is pulling up to the stop. The guy steps toward it, first in line, and Hob follows with the umbrella, then lets the other three people board ahead of him.

Which means, once he's boarded and tapped in, the only open seat is serendipitously next to his slightly-soggy goth stranger. Who makes eye contact and holds it as Hob approaches, scoots just that little bit closer to the window to make clear he doesn't mind Hob taking the seat beside him, and Hob is quietly thrilled at the subtle welcome.

"Are you a conversationalist, or a ride-in-silence enthusiast?" he asks, as the bus lurches into motion.

"Ordinarily, the latter," the guy admits, glancing briefly at Hob. "But, as I stormed out with neither book nor earbuds, and I find myself with a chivalrous seat partner, perhaps I could be persuaded to the former just this once."

"Very kind, thank you," Hob says, with a smile. "'Stormed out' doesn't sound promising; feel like unburdening to a friendly ear? I'd be happy to listen, if so. Or find something else entirely to talk about if not."

His stranger turns to the window, watching the rivulets of rain trailing over the glass; there is a brief lull before he speaks. "I find myself creatively blocked, and my sister's attempts to be helpful. Were not." He sighs. "I left the house to clear my head, before saying anything truly unkind."

"Smart," Hob agrees. He could listen to this guy talk all day, his rumbly words and his dark-velvety voice.

"'Smart' would have been making certain to grab more than just my phone and wallet." There's a pretty little scowl accompanying the words, that rosy mouth plumped out in the faintest pout visible in his reflection in the window, and Hob is smitten.

"That may be, but then I'd hardly have had reason to say hello, and we'd both be sitting here reading our books politely ignoring one another. Silver lining?"

"Perhaps," the guy says, but it sounds agreeable enough. Hob likes to think he's a decent judge of unspoken communication and that he could tell if he was being a bother. Currently his stranger is glancing over Hob's bag and his attire with a curious and observant eye, posture reserved but not closed off, and Hob figures he's doing alright.

"Where are you headed, then—work?" the guy asks.

"Yeah, I teach at the college, medieval history, now and then a class in medieval lit too."

The guy's attention goes from merely polite to genuinely interested. "Oh?"

"Yep!" Hob's heart rate bumps up a notch at the light in those (gorgeous) blue eyes; the sudden intensity of this stranger's focus is heady.

He's turned in his seat, angled to somewhat face Hob, gaze bright, expression open. "I imagine that is a difficult sell to many students."

"Oh my friend, you have no idea!" Delighted with his good fortune, Hob launches into tales of his most recalcitrant classes and the victories he's won in inciting and maintaining student interest. He's good at talking, and enjoys doing it, and this pretty stranger is paying genuine attention to him, and so Hob prattles on enthusiastically as the bus trundles steadily through the rain.

~ "This is me," Hob says, as the bus pulls up to the college stop. "It was delightful chatting with you, and I hope your day improves from here!"

"It already has, thank you."

The tiny smile that the stranger offers in parting buoys Hob's spirits all the way to his office.

~ Tuesday is miserably wet again and Hob checks for his stranger at the bus stop, hopeful (yes alright, perhaps he's got a bit of a crush), but there's no sign of him. It's earlier than it was yesterday though, on account of his 8 a.m. lecture this morning, so there's no reason to think he'd be there again. Plus he'd talked about 'storming out' and 'clearing his head'; it wasn't like this stop was a daily transfer point the way it was for Hob.

Chances were good they'd never cross paths again.

~ Wednesday it's less a downpour and more a light shower, but it's still enough that an umbrella is practical.

And Hob is absolutely delighted as he steps off his first bus to see that Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Emo is there again, and again without an umbrella, hunched ineffectually into the collar of his coat and resembling nothing so much as a disgruntled wet cat. He perks up distinctly as Hob approaches with his umbrella angled forward in offering.

"You gallantly come to my rescue yet again." He tilts his head and glances up through lush black lashes, just this side of coy. "I thank you, sincerely, Mr…?"

"Hob, I'm Hob. Just Hob. You can call me Hob." Not his most suave, certainly, but this blatantly-flirtatious greeting atop his own delight has somewhat stolen his functioning brain cells.

"Hob," the guy repeats, unhurried, like he's savoring the taste of the name in his mouth, and smiles just a little bit. "You may call me Dream."

"Pleased to run into you again, Dream." Hob dimples brightly, delighted with the turn his day has taken, delighted that they've made proper introductions. "How was the head-clearing, the other day?"

"Effective." The guy—Dream—crowds close under the umbrella (Hob's largest, which he had pulled out yesterday just in case) and smooths the clinging water from his hair with one hand. His (damp) shoulder is firmly pressed against Hob's and his profile is absolutely beautiful, this close. Hob tries not to stare.

"Got your creativity flowing again, did it?"

"I managed to finish a very troublesome chapter Monday evening, yes."

Hob perks up at this new tidbit of information. "You're a writer, then?"

He gives a short nod, staring out into the rain, then glances sideways at Hob. "I have you to thank for my progress, also."

"Me?"

"The stories you shared…you inspired a direction for the scene that was plaguing me. I came out yesterday, with intent to thank you, but you were not here…?"

His voice lilts up just a touch on the end of his sentence, curiosity expressed without actually voicing the question, and Hob just smiles. "Yeah, Tuesday's my early-morning class. Sorry I missed you."

"No matter. I have now left the house three days in a row and my sister is distressingly pleased about it. She says it is good for my mental health."

"And what do you think?"

He sighs, heavily. "She is not incorrect." He glances sideways at Hob again, eyes narrowed prettily. "But I am not going to admit it to her."

Hob laughs; he can't help it. "You are so completely valid for that," he says, and when Dream smiles in return his spirits soar.

~ "Remembered your umbrella this time, I see!" Hob ignores the little pang of disappointment; just because he doesn't need to share his umbrella with Dream this time doesn't mean they can't still have a conversation.

"My sister reminded me, yes," Dream answers, and then to Hob's great surprise he lowers and closes the umbrella. "But I would prefer to share yours, if you're amenable." His eyes flick up, just a hint of hopeful uncertainty showing there.

"Of course." Hob moves close, brings his umbrella over Dream's head, heart thudding in his chest with delight. He hopes the great spreading grin on his face doesn't put Dream off; he can't quite get it under control.

If Dream notices, he gives no indication. "This routine is working well for me," he says, and it takes Hob a second to cotton on to what he means.

"What, catching the bus in the rain every morning?"

"Yes," Dream says serenely. "The company is. Refreshing." The corners of his mouth tilt up the smallest bit.

"Nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," Hob says, making a valiant effort to sound normal while something warm blooms in the vicinity of his heart. He shifts the umbrella, making sure they're both still sheltered.

"Writing flows more easily when I return home after our morning conversations," Dream says, as if this is something they've been doing for weeks instead of just days. "I shall have to credit you in my author's notes."

Hob laughs, absolutely delighted. "That is extremely flattering, my friend, but wholly unnecessary. But if I'm at all helpful? I'm glad."

One day maybe he'll ask if he can see Dream's writing, when they've been acquainted for more than a week; one day further, perhaps, he'll ask him on a date. It certainly seems he'd be amenable, but Hob knows himself and his tendency to rush in full-tilt and tells himself there's no harm in just. Seeing what happens, for a little while.

~ "Share my umbrella?"

Dream looks askance at him, hair fluttering prettily across his forehead in the breeze. "It is not raining, Hob."

"Well no, but. Bit windy, isn't it? Wouldn't want you to suffer any windburn. Umbrella makes a decent wind-break." He has oh-so-smoothly said 'wind' three times in ten seconds, and it is the flimsiest of excuses to begin with, but Dream only smiles as if he's said something profoundly wise.

"Indeed. Truly, I am fortunate to receive your continued chivalry." He crowds in close to Hob, who angles the umbrella behind them to keep the wind off, and smiles.

~ The other patrons at the bus stop are giving Hob weird looks as he opens his umbrella, but there's only one person here whose opinion matters.

Dream tilts one eyebrow up, amused. "The sun is shining today, Hob Gadling. Yet still you offer your umbrella?"

"It's tradition, at this point. And besides—got a very fair complexion, haven't you? Bit of shade will do you good."

"…As you say." His smile is radiant as the sunshine, and Hob's heart thumps happily. "Thank you."

~ It's been about a month since that first meeting when Hob leaves campus for the afternoon and finds Dream waiting at the college bus stop. The morning's rain has cleared throughout the day but now rises again as a light drizzly mist; Dream is huddled into the meager shelter offered over the bench while pulling out his umbrella. Hob hurries over with his own already deployed, playing into their established pattern.

"Fancy meeting you here?" he greets, smiling. He's delighted to run into Dream outside their developed routine, and the way that Dream kind of blooms to see him is very satisfying.

"Hob. At last," Dream smiles, ducking under Hob's broad umbrella.

"Been waiting long?"

"…Somewhat. You see. I have. A question, I would like to ask you. An important one." The gravity in his tone is clear, and Hob might be worried if it wasn't so plainly obvious that Dream was nervous. "But I do not know your schedule, beyond your morning commute, and so…"

"Have you just been hanging around half the day waiting for me to show up?" Hob is equal parts appalled and delighted.

Dream meets his eyes briefly, glance flicking away again too quickly to interpret as anything other than confirmation. "Perhaps."

Hob laughs, aware he should possibly be alarmed by what any normal person would read as stalking behavior but utterly charmed by it instead. "Your patience has its reward, then. What was it you wanted to ask me?"

"I…ah." Dream colors prettily, the faintest pink flush across his cheeks as he stumbles over actually speaking his question, and Hob is rapidly escalating from 'charmed' to 'enamoured'. "I am not. Good, at—at—"

"Obviously it was important enough to identify my most likely location and wait hours for me to show up, right?" Hob cuts in gently. "Go ahead. I promise I won't judge you." He can hear the fondness seeping into his own voice, and apparently so can Dream. He lifts wide eyes to Hob, lips pressed together resolutely, and heaves a fortifying breath out through his nose.

"I wish to ask. Would you like to have dinner sometime. Or. Or coffee, perhaps."

The bus pulls up at that exact moment, disgorging a single passenger; Hob barely hesitates before waving the driver on.

"That was our bus?" Dream states, lilting up in such a way that it's clear he means Why did we not board, why are we still standing here?

"Well, yes," Hob agrees, very aware of the size of the dopey grin on his face. "But you see, a very dear friend of mine has just asked if I might like a bite to eat with him, and I know the most amazing little spot right around the corner."

"That. That is 'yes', then? Now?" Dream seems delightedly flummoxed, and it ratchets Hob straight up to 'besotted'. How could Dream think he'd ever say anything else? Although it occurs to him belatedly Dream might have other obligations for the evening.

"Well 'now' is certainly 'sometime', yes? If you're free, that is. If you've something else you have to do—"

"No. Nothing else," Dream cuts him off, and the warm smile spreading over his face makes Hob's heart skip a beat. "There is nowhere I should like to be more, just now."

Of course not, not when he'd dedicated the bulk of his day to waiting for Hob just to ask him out. "Wonderful. Shall we?" He offers his arm, angling the umbrella to keep the misty sprinkle off them still.

Dream tucks a hand into his elbow and falls into step beside him.

~ "Wanna try mine?" Hob offers, plucking a crispy slab of cheese from his plate with a bit of everything on it and holding it out, other hand cupped underneath. They are talking over plates of halloumi fries; Hob had gone for his favorite—smothered in pomegranate molasses and za'atar yoghurt with pomegranate arils and fresh mint garnish—and Dream had taken his drizzled in honey and sprinkled with sesame seeds.

"Thank you, I am fine," Dream says, rote politeness in his voice but curiosity in his eyes, and Hob arches a brow.

"Worried you'll have to spend a month stuck with me for each pomegranate seed?"

"That would hardly dissuade me," Dream replies, with a sweet little smile that hits Hob straight in the gut. "Very well, since you offer so generously." He leans forward, grasps Hob's wrist instead of the proffered food, and bites through the warm-crusted cheese while Hob's still holding it, lips brushing Hob's fingers as he pulls back.

He chews, making a contemplative face, and gently plucks the rest of it from Hob's hand while Hob is still scrambling to reboot his poor blue-screening brain and not make a fool of himself.

"Do you know," Hob blurts, grasping for anything, "whatever Persephone might have eaten in the underworld, it would've bound her there the same? It wasn't just because it was a pomegranate?"

"I did know that, yes," Dream replies, and Hob feels the flush of having said something fairly stupid rising into his face. "The pomegranate is a tidy choice for enumerating the months she stays below, I think, with the countable seeds." He plucks one of the ruby-red arils from the cheese that Hob had given him between two delicate fingertips and places it in his mouth, eyes on Hob in a way that makes him lose his brain again.

"Yes that's. Good point," Hob tries, and thankfully Dream pops the rest of the halloumi fry into his mouth without any fanfare or continued eye contact.

"I can see why you like this," Dream says, once his mouth is empty. "It is a wonderful blend of flavors. But the honey-sesame remains my favorite." He takes a bite from his own plate, and Hob tries not to fixate on the casual way he licks the honey off his rose-petal lips.

"I wrote an alternate version of Persephone's story, once," Dream says then, eyes not exactly meeting Hob's or even on his face, darting between his shoulder and his sternum and dropping back to his plate. "I made it her choice; they met and fell in love long before the abduction, which was closer to an elopement. She ate the pomegranate seeds deliberately so as not to be taken away from the partner she had chosen. In my version, it was the pomegranate specifically that would bind her."

"That sounds brilliant," Hob says, feeling a little starry-eyed; Dream has never really talked specifics about his writing before. "I'd love to read it sometime."

"It. Was many many years ago, before I ever considered publication," Dream admits, barely glancing up at Hob, still a little skittish. "I thought it a unique idea at the time, but there are dozens of Persephone remixes to be had and I have never felt it warranted the effort of reworking it from my current skill level or attempting to publish."

"Well for what it's worth, your version is the remix I'd be most interested in reading," Hob says, utterly sincere, smiling from ear to ear. "If you ever wanted to share, that is." He bites into another halloumi fry and speaks around it. "I would never pressure you to let me read your stuff if you don't want to. But I'm always interested."

"…Thank you." Dream covers his awkwardness with another dainty bite from his own plate, a hint of pink dusting across his cheekbones. When his mouth is empty again, he offers, "Mostly I have written. Romance."

"Oh?"

"Not under my own name. But yes."

"See it's fascinating that pseudonyms are so prevalent through the ages, and for so many reasons," Hob starts, and as the conversation turns in this new direction Hob does not miss how Dream relaxes to have the focus shifted from the vulnerable personal glimpse of himself he'd offered.

And Hob maybe falls a little bit deeper.

~ It's still lightly raining three hours later; they've talked about so many things, they've had dessert and then had coffee since neither of them were ready to leave yet. It's dark by the time they finally head back to the bus stop; Dream presses up against Hob's side beneath the umbrella and Hob thrills at the warmth, the closeness, the graceful slide of Dream's hand into his and the way he doesn't let go until the bus shows up.

~ It's raining again the first time Hob kisses Dream, pulling him close beneath the umbrella outside the theater, one finger tipped beneath Dream's chin; the kiss is tentative, but Dream's mouth is warm and the way he lists gently forward has Hob coming back again, soft and sweet and smiling helplessly.

~ Three straight days of rain are clearing on the afternoon that Dream takes Hob to the bookstore and leads him to the romance section, points him to a shelf in the 'M's where there are a dozen or so titles by Morpheus, mononymous. Hob doesn't make the connection for a second, and then he does.

"Is this you?" he asks, reaching for one of the hardbacks, and sure enough there's Dream's photo inside the dust jacket, solemn and styled and somehow less authentic than the Dream standing nervously next to him.

"Yes," Dream confirms, and soft warmth floods Hob's chest. Dream has been very reserved about his writing—"It is one thing to publish for strangers, but I find it…much more difficult to share, when it is someone whose opinon matters to me personally," he'd said once, and being trusted, opened up to like this—Hob is not oblivious to the privilege of it.

"You've certainly written a lot," he says, warmth and fondness curling in his chest. "And you're okay with me reading any of these?"

"Yes; however—" he reaches into the messenger bag slung over his hip, withdraws a large clear envelope with what looks like a manuscript inside. "If you wish to read my writing, I would have you begin with this." He hands it to Hob.

Hades and Persephone: The Morpheus Remix the paper proclaims through the plastic, and Hob looks up at Dream, delighted. "Is this—?"

"It needs a proper title." Dream shrugs, hunches into his coat a little bit. "I would like—perhaps you might help me come up with one, as it was you who inspired me to revisit and update it."

Hob cannot for the life of him stop the broad smile that overtakes his face, is not even trying. "I would be honored."

~ It is raining buckets the night that Dream comes home with Hob, and even the umbrella is not enough to prevent their getting a bit wet. But that's alright, Hob thinks, with Dream's eager mouth warm and hungry on his as they move in the direction of his bedroom, it's not like their clothes were staying on anyway.

He lays Dream gently in his bed, covers him with his own body, makes love to him with slow and ardent urgency while the rain lashes against his window. Later, after, when the winds have calmed and thunder rumbles soothingly in the distance, he holds Dream curled against him, asleep, and he thinks. He thinks about umbrellas, and shielding, and guardedness, and how Dream has slowly gifted so many of his vulnerabilities to Hob; he thinks about the duality of potential in that realization, the power it gives him to either harm or protect, and vows to himself that he will always be Dream's metaphorical umbrella when it's within his capabilities.

~ It's sprinkling just a little when Hob realizes that he's going to marry Dream.

It's early Autumn and they're at the park; Dream is under his own umbrella (look, sometimes sharing just isn't practical, as much as Hob still loves faithfully carrying on their schtick), scattering peas and grapes for the ducks and Hob is hanging back, watching him with an aching fondness in his heart.

Dream is beautiful, and thoughtful, and engaging. He is guarded and private, but so warm and emotional and giving once he has let you in. He is smart, and witty, with the driest sense of humor and the most endearingly terrible laugh and Hob has fallen desperately in love with him along the way.

He watches as a particularly bold duck comes close and snaps up the pea that had fallen directly at the toe of Dream's boot; watches the soft delight that steals over Dream's face, and he knows.

~ It is the following Spring before he asks. They are at the bus stop where they first met and it's a bright sunny day; Hob's got the umbrella up and they're shoulder-to-shoulder beneath it. Dream is animated, excited, talking about his editor's latest feedback on his Persephone remix (The Seeds of Fate, they had decided to call it), and Hob is listening, very much interested but so so nervous. The little velvet box on his pocket is weighty, not physically of course but he can't stop touching it, hoping Dream will say yes, believing Dream will say yes.

At last, Dream turns to him, a little wrinkle of concern between his brows. "You feel…distracted; is everything alright?"

Hob smiles at him, entirely and wholeheartedly in love. He hooks the hand holding the umbrella with Dream's so their fingers are tangled together around it; he leans his forehead against Dream's, closes his eyes. "I have a question, I'd like to ask you. An important one." It's a deliberate echo of how Dream had asked him out more than a year ago; Hob can picture the way Dream smiles to recognize it, can feel one eyebrow lifting against his own.

He takes a deep breath, pulls the little box from his pocket and clicks the lid open. "Will you marry me?"

It's a quiet request, pitched low so the other couple people at the bus stop don't overhear, so that if Dream does wish to say no, he won't be under the public pressure of strangers to say yes for appearances' sake. Not that Hob expects him to say no.

He hopes he doesn't say no.

Dream pulls back and Hob opens his eyes, meeting the surprise and delight and disbelief in Dream's. Dream looks down at the ring in the open box in Hob's hand, touches a fingertip to the velvet-covered lid delicately, looks back up at Hob with joy blossoming in his face.

"Do you mean it? Truly?"

Hob swallows down the nervous lump in his throat, squeezes gently where his hand is tangled with Dream's around the handle of the umbrella. "More than anything," he murmurs, entranced by the gathering shine of happy tears in Dream's eyes. "Marry me. Please."

Dream makes a joyful little noise, wrenches his hand free and throws both arms around Hob's neck, kissing him soundly. Hob manages to snap the ring box closed and swing the umbrella low, wraps both arms around Dream's waist and kisses him back.

"Yes," Dream breathes wetly when they part a moment later. "Yes, of course yes, a thousand times, yes."

~ They marry in the park in August, the clouds high and the breeze warm. Hob puts up the umbrella when they reach the crux of the ceremony; he holds its history over them while they say their vows, while they slip rings on one another's fingers, and then they seal their marriage with a tender heartfelt kiss beneath its promise of care and protection.

= Started: 2/3/24 Drafted: 2/24/24 Posted: 2/25/24

Fluffbruary 2024 Prompts Day 3: umbrella seashore mist Day 4: camera lush beau Day 5: rescue inertia lullaby Day 6: tie embarrassment* dessert Day 7: potatoes blue glass Day 8: shower blessed layer Day 9: urgency kneel rural Day 10: flush angel owl Day 11: reflection water apology Day 12: graceful volcano blanket Day 18: suave cologne gradual* Day 19: teacakes flood feature Day 20: smooth glitters queen Day 23: rhythm chalk humor Day 24: spring fuzzy silky

*The word did not get used but the concept is very much in there

✨✨✨ Sequel: Love Rain Down On Me ✨✨✨

[tj-dragonblade]

[FLUFFBRUARY FICLET] Shampoo

Rated: G Word Count: 541 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2024, fluff, established relationship, retired Dream, Hob Gadling loves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus loves Hob Gadling, he just doesn't speak it so plainly, scent, processing life changes

Fluffbruary 2024 Prompts Day 1 downy clinic nuance Day 2 engagement scent jam

On AO3

"Hmmmm," Hob purrs drowsily, nuzzling into the nape of Morpheus' neck, pulling Morpheus closer against him. "You smell nice."

Morpheus allows himself to be spooned into Hob's embrace beneath the blankets, nestling into the curve of Hob's body behind him, the warmth of Hob's arm around his middle. "Was my scent unpleasant before?"

"Not at all, not at all." Hob sounds languid and pleased, drunk with the lassitude of encroaching slumber and utterly content. "You used to smell amazing. Indescribable, but amazing. Clean and clear, like…like starshine and midnight frost in the middle of the forest in winter, that kinda thing."

"And now I do not." He can hear, in his own voice, the same bittersweet pang that colors nearly every thought of Before compared to Now. He is happier, of that there is no doubt; there is little to regret in having relinquished his duty and taken up a quasi-mortal existence with Hob. But that does not mean that he does not feel the loss of what he had been, that he does not feel lesser, inadequate, in small and everyday ways, in spite of his relief.

"Well, no," Hob agrees, gently, and presses soft lips to the back of his neck. "Now, you smell human. Touchable." He noses up into the downy hair at the base of Morpheus' skull and breathes in deeply. "You smell like my shampoo, and like the lotion you picked up from that little boutique last month." Hob's arm shifts closer about him, and Hob's mouth brushes the juncture of neck and shoulder, skirts the collar of the tshirt that Morpheus has donned for bed. "You smell like new clothes and comfortable old jumpers and clean sweat and just the faintest touch of rain and right now there's toothpaste in the mix too, and—mm." Hob buries his face in the back of Morpheus' shoulder, worms his other arm around Morpheus' chest and hugs him tightly, breathing deep, scenting him fully. "You smell like Morpheus, my Morpheus, and I love you."

Morpheus hums a small sound in acknowledgement, and brushes gentle fingers over Hob's upon his stomach, rests them there. It pleases him that so many of the scent elements just named by Hob are elements of Hob himself, small ways in which he might consider himself marked by Hob, marked as Hob's.

Hob, who has welcomed him into his life full-time without batting an eye, who waited for him in faith that he would return, who loves him. Hob, who treats him with more kindness than he is rightly due, who holds him while they sleep.

Hob, who thinks he smells nice.

"G'night love," Hob says then, pressing one more kiss to the base of his neck, and Morpheus settles. In only a moment Hob's breath has evened out, slow and deep; Morpheus listens, matches himself to it, lets sleep rise up to claim him safe in the circle of Hob's arms and the cradle of Hob's body.

His last thought as he slips into his old realm, a visitor, is that whatever trepidation he may continue to feel at this change, whatever he may count as lost, that which he has gained in Hob is entirely more precious, and entirely worth it.

= Started: 2/1/24 Drafted: 2/2/24 Posted: 2/2/24

[tj-dragonblade]

[FLUFFBRUARY FICLET] Vogue

Rated: M Word Count: 756 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2024, fluff with added heat, human AU, photographer-model roleplay

For my dearest @staroftheendless - happy birthday! The stars aligned and I managed to bang out this little scene, built on today's Fluffbruary prompt and featuring not-a-shaved-panther human!Dream just for you ❤️

Fluffbruary Prompts: Day 21: photography pepper truffles Day 22: key silly quest

Summary: Dream comes home and Hob greets him with a camera

On AO3

"There he is!" Hob exclaims, and whisper-yells to simulate crowd noise, camera flashing as the door to the flat opens. Dream pauses on the threshold, caught off guard, keys still in hand, and then his expression shifts as he takes in Hob, shirtless, snapping photo after photo. He smiles, slow and sultry, tosses his head and runs a hand through his hair, shakes it out as he shuts the door and sets his keys aside. He pauses briefly on each move, posing, letting Hob get every shot like they're on the red carpet, and Hob plays it up, crooning directions in between.

"Yeah, that's it, give me lips—" Dream pouts, full and rosy pink, framed by his three-day stubble, and the camera flashes. "Beautiful, gorgeous, yes. Give me flirty, playful—" Dream hooks a finger under the knot of his tie and tugs it loose, flicks open the buttons on his collar, smile coy, eyes a simmering sapphire blue under his lashes. "Love it, sweetheart, you're a natural," Hob praises, clicking away. They've gone from imaginary red carpet to imaginary private studio in two seconds flat but that's really not the point here, is it. "Lose some layers, let's relax a bit, yeah?"

Dream, bless him, manages to make the process of removing his shoes and socks while still standing look sexy, somehow; Hob makes sure to catch his bare feet with their ebony toenails in at least of couple of shots. Dream shrugs out of his neat slate-grey blazer next, turning and giving a coy come-hither gaze over his shoulder as he tugs it off his arms and casts it aside.

"That's right baby keep going, you're doing great," Hob offers, halfway between his photographer-with-questionable-ethics persona and genuine praise. It's harder to keep up the role the further they get into it, but he knows Dream has fun with these silly little games and so he does his best. "Show me something dirty, now, something sexy." He's backing down the hall as Dream advances, heading inevitably for the bedroom.

"Hmmm," Dream purrs, thoughtful; then, eyes never leaving the camera, he brings his wrist to his mouth and unbuttons the cuff of his sleeve with his teeth. His other hand is busy with the buttons down his front; he switches and continues, repeats the cuff-unbuttoning on the other arm.

"Perfect," Hob leers, backing into the bedroom, snapping pic after pic, "keep it coming, make me, uh, make me forget my own name here—"

Dream lifts his arms, shirt hanging open, cuffs undone, and rakes both hands back through his hair with a moan. His eyes are closed, lips parted, head tilted back; the loose tie around his throat is a slash of deep burgundy against the black of his chest hair and the white of his skin and Hob loses his breath for half an instant at the sheer compositional beauty of the sight, grateful that he's already got his camera in action.

He is so fucking blessed, to get to call Dream his.

Dream lifts his head, rolls his shoulders, drops his hands to his belt and meets Hob's gaze through the camera lens again. He undoes the buckle and pulls the slim leather free in one swift motion, drops it lazily behind him as he enters the bedroom. He flicks open the clasps on his trousers, draws the zipper down just enough to tease, then palms himself in one hand while the other snakes up to pull his tie completely free. He gives Hob another second to take photos while he's gripping his crotch and then he turns, steps over to the bed and falls gracefully back onto it. His hands are above his head; he winds the tie loosely about both wrists and then holds the ends in his fist, a token show of restraint. His shirt is wide open around him, dusky pink nipples on display, the dark hair on his chest trailing beautifully down his abdomen into the open fly of his trousers, where he is visibly aroused.

Hob stares, lifting his gaze from the viewscreen on the camera, achingly hard himself and losing the thread of his character entirely. "Fuck me, you're gorgeous," he breathes, snapping a few more photos. He can't help himself.

Dream smiles, sultry, decadent, and arches invitingly against the sheets. "Put the camera down, Hob," he purrs, flexing his fingers where his hands are 'bound' above his head. "Your model has worked hard, and would like to be ravished, now."

Hob is only too happy to comply.

= Drafted: 2/20/24 - 2/21/24 Posted: 2/21/24

[tj-dragonblade]

[FIC] London Fog

Rated: M Word Count: 3504 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2024, sort of failed at being fluff though, human AU, post-vacation blues, Dream of the Endless is a stubborn miserable bastard, Dream of the Endless is a sad wet cat, divorced Dream, hopeful ending don't worry, background Hob & Johanna, Hob and Johanna are besties, Jessamy for MVP, Jessamy and Dream are besties, no actual smut herein, but there IS one spicy recollection midway through

Sequel to Caribbean Sunset. This was supposed to be a quick fluffy scene of parting ways at the end of the cruise, of Hob communicating respect for Dream's boundaries along with the desire to see him again. But then 'what are Dream's reasons for hesitating' suddenly turned into backstory full of angst and depression and steered us into post-vacation blues and this is not the fluff I set out to write but I am happy enough with it all the same.

If anyone is sensitive to topics of marital fidelity and full disclosure, please click the read-more and scroll to the bottom for quick spoilers before proceeding.

Fluffbruary 2024 Prompts Day 13 choice snuggling furry Day 14 phone bubble bath doll Day 15 cord bakery honey

Summary: Dream does his best to ignore Possibilities while he copes with returning from holiday

On AO3

The ship's main atrium is crowded with passengers queuing up for debarkation, loud with the murmur of many voices, but there is only one voice that hold's Dream's attention at the moment.

"I mean. We both live in London; it's not unthinkable we might get together again? Have a drink, grab a bite, get to know each other better?"

Hob's tone is bright, hopeful; the light in his eyes is so very alluring, and Dream is almost tempted.

But circumstances do not permit him to indulge in such fantasies, not now that his cruise has come to an end—the divorce continues to drag on, courtesy of Alex's father, and Dream is uncertain beyond that whether he even wants any relationship ever again; each attempt has gone worse than the last and Hob…Hob is sweet, and kind, and an excellent lay, and Dream. Would not wish to drag him into the festering detritus of his own life.

He has not even left the ship, yet, and already the weight and gloom of reality are pressing heavy at his shoulders.

How he longs to stretch this holiday into infinity, to never have to go back.

He steels himself, forcibly pushes the gathering melancholy away, meets Hob's lovely gaze with a sad smile.

"Hob. I adore you; I hope that much is clear. But my life is. Convoluted, at present, and I am. Messy, at relationships, in general. I do not want to taint—" He blows out a breath, tries again. "This has been wonderful, amazing, so very easy; we fuck and we frolic and we have no cares, no responsibilities, and I would book both of us onto the turnaround cruise immediately if it were feasible, so that we might continue. I am not looking forward to returning to all that waits for me at home."

"All the more reason for a breath of something new, something you could carry over from holiday?" Hob's face is so open, so reasonable and guileless and hopeful.

Dream shakes his head, adamant. "As I said, I am messy. In the ordinary day-to-day, in the mundanity of work and circumstance I. I grow neglectful—cruel, I have been told, many times—and…you will grow weary, of my demands, my eccentricities, of my capricious moods and sullen temper."

"I won't, though," Hob says, smiling, as if it is truly that simple. They have been acquainted for a week, much of which was spent in vigorous activities other than deep conversation, and yet Hob speaks with firm conviction as if they have known one another for months. "But I get it. A fling on holiday is not a real relationship." He tugs on his ear, offers his sweet, warm smile. "All the same, I really like you, and I would love the chance to see if we could be something more. So." He holds out a hand. "Phone, love?"

Dream is responding to the easy endearment before he even realizes, unlocking his phone and handing it to Hob.

"Here's what we'll do," Hob says, fingers flying over the screen. "I'll give you my number. Just that. And if you ever want to call, you can. I don't have your info so I can't violate that boundary. It's entirely up to you." He hands the phone back to Dream and there he is, 'Hob' in his contacts, just a number, with a cartoon lemur from the default gallery as his pic. "If you delete it, if you never call, so be it. I'll always remember you fondly. But if you decide you'd like to see me again, please know I'd love to hear from you. Even if you don't want to date, if you just need to let off some steam no strings attached, I would be happy to be there for you." He smiles, soft and just a little self-depracating. "I'm shooting my shot, as they say, so you know where I stand. But the power's in your hands, dove; the choice is yours. And I'll respect it, whatever you decide."

Dream blinks, clutches his phone tightly, a little bit breathless at how astute Hob is. He's barely mentioned his life in any depth when they did talk; Hob was a holiday tryst in the midst of his interminable ongoing divorce and he hadn't intended on any deeper connection or true getting-to-know-one-another conversations. At most he may have mentioned a 'controlling ex' in passing and he genuinely cannot say for sure; Hob has kept him suitably occupied with other thoughts.

But here is Hob, either extrapolating from that comment or running entirely off intuition, handing him full autonomy over whether or not he wants to pursue any further acquaintance.

"Thank you," he says, eyes pricking with the threat of tears. Perhaps—perhaps—

But no. Best not to even think about 'perhaps'. There is too much to sort out at home still; he does not need to indulge in what-ifs and flights of fancy.

"Can I kiss you? One last time?" Hob asks, and Dream throws his arms about Hob's neck and kisses him first, heedless of the crowded atrium.

It is heaven, the soft slide of Hob's mouth fitting to his, the gentle teasing curl of his tongue, and Dream realizes with a sudden fierce ache that he is going to miss it terribly.

It is more difficult than he would like to end it.

"Goodbye, Hob Gadling," he murmurs, close to Hob's lips, and reluctantly steps back. "Thank you for making this cruise so wonderfully memorable." His hands find both of Hob's, squeeze them.

Hob smiles, soft and bright and the slightest bit sad. He leans in, presses a lingering kiss to the corner of Dream's mouth. "Bye, Dream," he says, gentle and quiet, and then he's sliding from Dream's grasp, turning, walking away.

Dream watches him go, watches as Johanna emerges from the crowd to corral him; he is still watching when Hob glances back over his shoulder with that same beatific melancholy in his smile. Dream gives him a small wave, tries his best to smile in return.

And then Hob is gone, swallowed up in the throng of passengers streaming into the gangway, and Dream deflates.

"This dream is over," he mutters to himself, and makes his way off the ship.

~ Hob and Johanna had boarded a bus for Disney World; there is no chance of encountering them at the airport. The thought gives Dream bitter resolve as he checks his luggage at the kiosk and makes his way through security, finds the first class lounge, settles in to wait for his 6pm departure time.

Two hours in to the transatlantic flight, long limbs comfortably folded into his first class aisle seat and beginning to protest the stillness, he sets his mind to wandering. How wonderful it might have been, to change his plans, to accompany Hob to 'the happiest place on earth'. Hob has been delightful company in and out of the bedroom and Johanna was agreeable enough; he had immensely enjoyed the time they spent together on St. Thomas. He has never been to any Disney park, on any continent, and while it has never seemed like something he would enjoy he now finds himself imagining such a visit in Hob's company, laughing at Hob's childlike delight as they queue for rides and attractions, shopping for souvenirs, sampling street foods and specialty offerings of every kind.

But no. It would be rude to invite himself on the next leg of Hob's holiday with Hob's friend; Dream had already monopolized Hob's time on the cruise and while Johanna had been very adaptable in that regard, Dream would not wish to impose further.

Besides which. There are meetings with solicitors to be attended, in hopes of finally moving the onerous divorce proceedings to a close; his company and accounts need his attention and it would be unfair of him to expect Jessamy to shoulder that load for longer simply because he is weary of his responsibilities and far too attached to his holiday fling.

With a sigh, he pushes all thoughts aside and closes his eyes, attempting sleep.

~ Jessamy meets him at Heathrow after he's cleared customs in the morning; he is tired, and grateful for her brisk efficiency in getting him to the waiting car and home to his sleek modern flat. Today is for dealing with jet lag; tomorrow he will return to the office and his responsibilities full time. All the same, there are things he can go over with Jessamy in the name of catching up and being prepared, once he's had a nap. Airline travel is not conducive to meaningful sleep.

"Good to have you home, Dream," Jessamy says, as she rolls the suitcase she brought in over to where he's dropped the rest of his luggage.

"Thank you, Jessamy." He hopes she understands that he means for everything, not just that single sentiment; she makes his life run smoothly in a way he can hardly imagine being without.

"Of course." She flashes a cheeky grin. "You must tell me about all the exciting and unmentionable shenanigans you got up to, after you've slept. I'll be back this afternoon so we can touch base properly."

Dream collapses in his bed after she's left, the sheets crisp and clean and the pillowcase cool against his face, and dreams of Hob's hands on his skin.

~ He settles back into his mundane routines easily, as if he's never left, the same way it always happens when he returns from holiday. He meets with investors, he addresses the shareholders, he facilitates talks between Finance and Marketing to adjust the budget for next fiscal year and allocate additional funding for the long-term studies requested by the latter. He meets with his solicitors, who assure him that each of the latest demands and stipulations brought by the Burgess camp have been refused and countered and the directive given once more to sign the final document that Dream had thought far too generous six months ago. They are optimistic that there will be no further objections.

Dream will not allow himself that hope until it actually comes to pass.

He thinks of Hob frequently.

It is mid-March, a full month since returning, when he finds himself gazing yet again at the innocuous entry in his contacts, the cartoon lemur staring back at him brightly.

He ought to delete it. He ought to cut the thread that holds him to the glimmer of impossibility and impracticality, of unrealistic expectations. It has been a month; surely Hob has realized by now that he will not call and has put the entire notion behind him. Dream is foolish, to keep the number in his phone, to entertain the occasional daydream of actually calling. He has not; he will not. There is no point in letting the contact remain.

He recalls, with aching clarity, their last night aboard ship when they had finally put the bed to carnal use, having exhausted all other options within the suite and private deck. Hob had put him facedown on his knees and lovingly opened him up on tongue and fingers until he spilled, helpless, then put him on his back and fucked him tenderly to another climax before finishing himself. Dream remembers the way Hob kissed him throughout, slow and thorough; he remembers with a shiver of longing Hob's fingers carding through his hair, cradling his thighs, stroking down his neck, his shoulders. He recalls Hob's voice, soft and fervent, murmuring endearments and appreciation against his mouth, his skin; he remembers how he fought to keep from crying, overwhelmed by the adoration that Hob poured into him.

He had felt…cherished. It was only a holiday indulgence, a fantasy of possibilities, but oh, how he had wanted. It was delightful to curl in sleep with Hob, to be held, to imagine that this kind and beautiful near-stranger truly cared for him beyond the pleasure they found in one another.

It was so easy to pretend that he was loved.

He closes his contacts without deleting Hob's entry.

~ "So this gentleman you met on your cruise," Jessamy starts one day in April, over breakfast. She has brought him a decadent blueberry danish from the bakery near her flat and is picking delicately at her own lemon poppyseed muffin. "He left you his number, you said?"

"Yes." Dream takes an enormous bite of the pastry, delighting in the sweet tang of the blueberry filling on his tongue, the sugary melt of the glaze and the flake of the crust. He does not like where this conversation seems to be headed, but it is Jessamy, and her offering is delicious, so he will endure it.

"Are you ever going to call him?" She plucks another small chunk of her muffin between two elegant glittery-black nails and pops it into her mouth, watching him with sharp, knowing eyes.

Dream chews slowly, allowing himself time to ponder the question until his mouth is empty. "I do not know," he says at last, honestly. "I should not; there is little point. Yet I cannot quite let go of the fantasy."

"There's little harm in a spot of fantasy, though, is there," she returns. "It's human nature to spin ourselves what-ifs and wouldn't-it-be-nices."

"Perhaps," Dream allows, and returns to his Danish.

It has been two months now since the cruise; the longer he goes without calling Hob, the more foolish he feels when he imagines how it might play out if he did. It is fanciful nonsense, all of it; Hob has certainly put Dream far from his mind by now.

Hob's number remains in his phone, the bright-eyed lemur inciting a small pang of fondness and regret any time he scrolls past it.

~ It is the last week in May that the divorce is at long last finalized, legitimized, and filed as complete.

Dream feels a celebration would be appropriate. He considers dressing down and dolling up, visiting the clubs that he had taken to frequenting after he and Alex officially separated more than two years ago. Sex would be a lovely way to celebrate, especially when it's been months since the last time he'd gotten laid—

The notion passes silently on before it can truly take hold. Sex would be nice, yes, but now he is thinking of that last time, and all he wants is Hob.

Jessamy brings champagne to his office as evening sets in. "I heard the good news," she says, waggling the pair of stemmed glasses in her hand. "Congratulations on finally being legally and officially rid of the twat."

"Thank you." Dream rises and takes the glassware; Jessamy pops the cork and pours for them both, then lifts her glass. "To freedom?"

Dream matches her. "To correcting mistakes which ought never have been made," he amends, and they drink.

~ Two glasses later, the conversation has turned to Dream's Future Prospects, a topic far more easily navigated when mellowed by the champagne in his bloodstream.

"I am better off alone, Jessamy."

Jessamy tilts her head at him, frowning.

"No, I don't think you are," she offers at last.

"Nonsense." Dream feels very strongly that his point is valid. "Every relationship I have had has been. Catastrophic."

"Well, yes. You did make magnificently bad choices in your last two marriages."

"And the others?"

"You and Nada were both far too young when you eloped." She shakes her head slightly. "And everyone in between were decent enough people, just…not right for you, ultimately. There were plenty of reasons for things not working out, but that doesn't mean you stop trying."

"The fact that I have seven failed marriages behind me when I am barely forty years old leads me to think otherwise." Dream tips another small measure of champagne into his glass. "I would be wise to seek out my casual dalliances when I wish for them and swear off the idea of romance. I would be far happier."

Jessamy is giving him that look, the one that says he's full of shit but she'll find a kinder way to point it out. "Would you, though?"

"Of course. You are happy, are you not?"

"Yes, but I'm aromantic. You very much are not, Dream. You thrive on the thrill of falling in love, of wooing and being wooed and grand gestures of devotion."

He swirls his glass, once, pouting. She is correct, of course; she knows him better than anyone, has been his friend for most of his life and his assistant for most of his career. He is very much in love with being in love, which makes the parade of failed marriages in his wake all the more painful.

"You are right, of course," he reiterates aloud, melancholy stealing over him. "The idea of finding someone for one night does not even hold the appeal it did before I went on holiday. I just keep thinking of Hob."

Jessamy cocks her head at him again, raises an eyebrow, gaze bright and astute. "The fantasy in your phone whom you've never called?"

"Yes."

"That good, was he?"

"He was not—he was, rather, but it was not just that." He can feel the emotion swelling in his chest and makes no effort to hide it; Jessamy will not judge him ill for it. "Hob is kind, and sweet, and so full of life; he is a brilliant soul, warm and chivalrous and—and—" He has run out of words.

"And hot?" Jessamy's grin is sly.

"And hot," Dream admits, mournfully, "and such a good kisser, and Jessamy, I miss him. He went to Disney World, after the cruise." He looks at her, everything laid bare in his eyes, tongue comfortably loose with champagne. "I wanted very much to go with him."

"Wow."

"Yes." Dream looks away, breathing past the ache in his chest; he cannot deny that the space Hob has occupied in his thoughts since February is far more than warranted by a simple holiday tryst.

Jessamy sighs gently. "Then. Perhaps—and hear me out here—perhaps you should call him."

Dream shakes his head, miserable. "I will ruin him, I will ruin whatever feeling lies between us. As I did with Calliope, and Will, and Nuala—"

"Every relationship is different, Dream. Every set of variables, every chance—maybe it won't work, but maybe it will. You don't know without trying."

"…Perhaps."

Jessamy sets her glass aside and rises to leave. She lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes lightly in passing. "Life is too short, Dream. Reach for happiness, every now and again. You deserve it as much as anyone."

~ Dream stares at the little cartoon lemur on his phone screen long after Jessamy has left, stares at Hob's name beneath it.

Is he truly thinking of calling, after all this time?

It is pointless, hopeless; surely Hob has long since moved on. Besides which, it is late. He does not even know what Hob does for a living, whether he is likely to still be awake at 9pm on a Tuesday but even so, it does not matter. It is far too late in the evening for unsolicited non-emergency phone calls, particularly when he is morbidly tipsy from finishing off the bottle of champagne; he swipes out of his contacts, heart thudding in his chest as though he's just narrowly missed out on calamity.

Or opportunity.

~ He stares at the lemur again the next day, and the next, and the next, debating with himself, thumb hovering over the number while his pulse pounds sickly with nerves. He wants to call, more than he might have wanted anything in recent memory; he is terrified to try, to take the risk, to burn the gauze of fantasy to the ground in hopes that a beautiful reality will rise from the ashes.

The lemur's cartoon eyes stare brightly back, unhelpful.

~ At last, on the seventh of June, half past noon on a bright sunny day, Dream can dither no more over insecurities and cautionary woes.

He wants, and he is tired of pretending that he does not.

He steels himself, closes his eyes and lets his thumb touch down.

Trembling, breath held, he brings the phone to his ear.

There is ringing on the other end, three times, a fourth, and then the sound of the line connecting.

A voice, a voice wonderfully familiar despite how long it has been since last he heard it, speaks up. "Hello, Robert Gadling here…"

Dream opens his eyes and exhales, heart in his throat. "Hob?"

There is a sudden stillness over the line. "…Dream?" Dream can hear the bright smile breaking over Hob's face. "Is that you?!"

The tension bleeds out of him in a rush and he is smiling as well, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as he cradles the phone in both hands, curling toward the warm glow of possibility it offers.

Perhaps, perhaps this time, if he only believes.

"Hello, Hob."

= Started: 2/13/24 Drafted: 2/15/24 Posted: 2/15/24

The Extra Warning note: We find out here that Dream is still in the middle of a years-long messy divorce from Alex Burgess while on the cruise; he has technically committed adultery with Hob. Hob does not know and will not find out at this juncture. If this makes you uncomfortable, I completely understand if you need to give this a pass.

[tj-dragonblade]

[FLUFFBRUARY FICLET] Before I Go

Rated: G Word Count: 849 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2024, fluff, sap, established relationship, Hob Gadling loves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus loves Hob Gadling, kisses, parting is such sweet sorrow, flower symbolism

Fluffbruary Prompts: Day 16 neighbor desire horse Day 17 magazine tactile curtains Alt prompts: evening, caress

Additional inspiration taken from a couple of these kisses

Title credit and musical accompaniment: Before I Go by Yanni (Spotify link)

Summary: Season-of-Mists-style visit, some time later in their relationship

On AO3

It is a lush and expansive garden where Hob finds himself on a beautiful summer evening—flowers climbing the trees and blooming in every direction, nocturnal birds twittering their songs in the branches overhead, crickets chirping accompaniment in the undergrowth. The stars twinkle brightly in the blue-velvet sky and the moon shines full and brilliant, a silvery wash of illumination over the landscape. The path under Hob's feet winds between flower beds and lovely stone borders, toward a burbling stream running musically beneath the trailing branches of a willow tree. He follows along to a little wooden bridge arching over the stream and across, to a decadent little bower of trellises wreathed in climbing ivy and dripping with twilight-purple wisteria.

There's a familiar figure waiting there for him, and he smiles as he draws near. "Hello, love."

"Hello, Hob." Dream's eyes glitter softly like the stars, just as dark and depthless as the sky, just as beautiful. The moonlight illuminates him like a work of art, pearlescent skin and raven-feather hair, smoke-shadow robes draping him in regal refinement. He looks ready to hold court, to receive an audience, and Hob is awestruck all over again that this unfathomably powerful otherworldly creature deigns to be his friend, to be so much more; to accept his affections, to return them. He is so very lucky, and he knows it.

He looks up at Dream, who is currently half a head taller than him, and he can feel the fondness shining in his own eyes. "I'm not awake, am I."

"No." Dream's tiny little smile is both affectionate and regretful. "I apologize for usurping your dream; there is something I must attend to that will keep me away for some time. I did not wish to leave without making you aware."

Hob furrows his brow. "It's not Hell again, is it?"

"No. Nor do I anticipate any danger or risk to myself, my realm, but there may be. Delays. In resolving the matter."

Hob knows better than to ask for specifics in this sort of thing when Dream has not given them, regardless of how curious he may be. "Will Matthew be with you?"

"Yes."

"Then I know you're in good company and I'll hear from you if needed." He wishes, in some deep fundamental part of himself, that he could accompany Dream on these sorts of errands, but in this also he knows better. There are so many things in existence that are far beyond what his immortal-but-still-mundane mind can comprehend.

Dream steps forward, closer. "Dearest Hob. I would bring you with me, were it advisable. But as it is not—" he lifts a hand to Hob's face, touches him in the gentlest caress "—I will bid you farewell, and promise to return as soon as is feasible."

Hob places his own hand over Dream's, holds it there as he leans into it. "I'll be waiting, dove. Be safe."

Dream makes no reply, just gazes at him tenderly, leans in until his forehead rests against Hob's. He tangles his fingers with Hob's, splays them behind his neck and tilts in slowly until their lips meet.

It is soft, sweet, short, this kiss; and then another, a gentle farewell before Dream draws back. His hand drops from Hob's face but Hob can't quite let go, following it down, clinging; he is full to the brim with a dozen different emotions and all he wants to do is kiss Dream again, so deeply and so thoroughly that Dream will still taste him long after they've parted, will carry his love with him on whatever this errand is and know that Hob is waiting faithfully for his return.

He's leaning back in already, helpless in the face of this desire, but redirects at the last second, planting a soft kiss on Dream's cheek instead. He won't demand more than was given, not when Dream has duty weighing heavy on his mind, not when Dream has shown such consideration in making sure to take his leave. He is respectful of Dream's time and Dream's responsibilities and he will not do anything to make Dream think otherwise.

But Dream's eyes flash as Hob draws back, and then Dream has seized Hob's bicep and yanked him back in, is kissing him soundly. Hob can't help a delighted smile, at that, but it's quickly lost in the fierce parting of Dream's lips, the yearning wanting lament of his fervent mouth, and Hob loses himself in returning the sentiment.

That. That is a proper kiss goodbye, Hob very carefully does not say aloud, blinking as Dream lets him go.

"Until I return, devoted mine," Dream breathes, the stars in his eyes blazing, and steps back.

"I'll be waiting," Hob says again, the 'as long as it takes' and 'I'll miss you' and 'I love you' unspoken.

Dream smiles, the tiny kitten-soft smile that Hob knows is just for him, and takes his leave.

Hob stays, beneath the twining ivy and the curtains of clinging wisteria, and watches him go, the music of the crickets rising gently in his wake.

= Drafted: 2/17/24 Posted: 2/17/24

Why did I pick wisteria? Gosh I'm so glad you asked! Because it's pretty, and it made for lovely visuals. BUT then I looked up meanings also, and serendipitously I found:

1. Purple wisteria symbolizes royalty and undying devotion or love that transcends time 2. Victorians would include a cluster of delicate purple blossoms in their bouquets when they wanted to send a message of overwhelming desire and passion. In particular, the Wisteria was considered to say “I cling to you” as it would cling to the branches of other trees. Wisteria sends such a strong message of romance in most cultures that they’re usually best used for declarations of devotion or for wedding arrangements. 3. Wisteria—Welcome; Meeting you means so much to me 4. Wisteria gives a symbolic representation of beauty, love, long life and immortality, grace, bliss, honour, patience, endurance, longevity, releasing burdens, victory over hardships.

(There are relevant meanings to the the ivy (fidelity, everlasting life) and the willow (flexibility, adaptation) as well)

Sources: 1 2 3 4

[tj-dragonblade]

🔍🔍 bloop

Thank you for making me put a few more words on this one! Follows on directly from the last snippet in the wip: search agency tag:

"And yet. It is my property, and I would have it back. Without paying for it again." "I feel for ya, buddy, but that ain't fair to me." The guy crosses his arms, squaring up to argue. Ordinarily Hob might feel inclined to step in, to mediate, but instinct stays him. This is not the item that Dream actually wants; he remembers very clearly Dream saying he was unconcerned with retrieving the gemstone and the 'headwear', that only the pouch truly mattered. So if this ruby is just a decoy, why insist on taking it back? He holds his tongue, lets Dream do whatever it is he's doing. Dream folds his arms, mirroring the proprieter. "Then let us find some compromise that is fair to us both," he says. "The woman who sold this to you. I have reason to believe she is in possession of other stolen goods of mine. I would like them back as well." "Sure you would," the guy says, nodding, his tone an obvious attempt to be sympathetic. "She was tryna sell a few things besides the gem; could be they were yours?" "A helmet, not unlike a gas mask in appearance, with a spine protruding from the front?" "Yeah, she had that. Almost bought it, what with the weird magical energy comin' off it, but I couldn't imagine actually unloading it to anyone and I didn't want it stuck in my hoard. Didn't feel right." "A wise decision," Dream agrees, and Hob doesn't miss the look that flashes over the dragon's face, a look that says he's not sure what kind of bullet he dodged by rejecting that sale and he's glad enough to never find out as Dream continues. "The other item is a small pouch full of enchanted sand." "She did have a pouch she tried to sell me; couldn't neither of us get it open, though, so don't know what was actually in it. Wasn't buyin' it unknown." "Do you know where she might have gone next to try fencing her goods?" Dream asks it with a tired note in his voice, a weary and defeated cast to his expression, and the dragon's whole demeanor softens just a little. "There's a lot of possibilities, yeah. I could maybe come up with a list, but—" He shrugs, seeming almost genuinely apologetic. "Then let me propose a trade," Dream says, unfolding his arms and placing both hands on the glass countertop. "Tell us everything you can about this woman—what she looks like, where she may have gone next, anywhere that would make a likely stop for selling stolen magical items. And I will relinquish my claim to the stone, withdraw my personal seal from it." "That's all you want?" The dragon sounds wary, like it's too good to be true. Hob thinks, given the size of that stone, that it probably is. But he's trusting Dream. Dream offers a wan smile. "There is greater value to me in retrieving my other property, even if it means the loss of this piece. You have already paid a great sum for it. Tell me anything you can of the one who sold it to you, of where she could feasibly attempt sales, and will let you keep what you have bought in gratitude. If I catch up to her, I can take the money from her in recompense." "Alright, okay. You got yourself a deal, my friend." The dragon holds out his hand to shake.

This needs some refinement yet but progress is progress.

[tj-dragonblade]

FLUFFBRUARY 2023: Feb 14

Prompts: idea teach fruit

"Hob."

"…Yes?"

"I have been. Considering your words, and I…will concede, that your concerns are valid."

"Thank you."

"I would remedy the oversight, with your. Cooperation."

"…We're not talking about getting you a mobile phone, are we."

"No."

"Alright then. What?"

"I would. Teach you the means to summon me—"

"Whoa, hold on. Summoning? No. No, I know what I said, but absolutely not. I'm not just yanking you willy-nilly from whatever you're in the middle of when you've got no say in it. Thanks anyway."

"It is not that sort of summon, Hob. I would not be. Compelled, to answer. Only…made aware, that you wish to speak with me."

"…You're free to answer me or ignore me, then? I can't accidentally drag you here against your will?"

"Yes. And. I will not. Ignore you, should you call me in this manner."

"Alright then. But only if you're sure. Look I know I was whinging about it but I understand the…the differences between us and that you can't be here—"

"Hob."

"…"

"There is little reason to deny you the means to contact me from the waking world, and I am. Disinclined, to heed it. I would make myself accessible to you. Allow me to. Treat you, with the favor you are due."

"Silver-tongued—alright. Alright. Tell me how this works."

"You need only write my name, with intent, on something which may be burned."

"And then I burn it to call you?"

"If need be. Or speak my name, with intent, while touching what was written. Burning will indicate. A particular urgency."

"Fire's for emergencies, got it. Which name, specifically?"

"Summon me by Dream. My other names do not hold the same power."

"The whole thing, Dream of the Endless, or just Dream?"

"Dream is sufficient."

"Good, good. Shorter in emergencies, too."

"…Do you anticipate the need to reach me under duress?"

"Hopefully not! Just considering all possibilities. Can I prep a calling card ahead of time, something I'd carry with me that I could grab and call you if needed?"

"Yes."

"And if I had no other options, I could…I don't know, write it in blood on my own skin? I mean, I'll burn, if it comes down to it—"

"HOB."

"Well it's like you said, not that it has to be burnt, just that it could be."

"Do NOT. Set fire to yourself."

"I wouldn't. Not unless I was out of options."

"HOB."

"Dream."

"You are being difficult. On purpose."

"Maybe. A little. Mostly I just want to be sure I know all the ins and outs of how this works so I don't call you by accident or accidentally let someone else get ahold of your calling card or—I don't want you to have any doubt—you can trust me, with this. I won't abuse it. I won't be careless with it."

"…I know. And. I thank you."

"…"

"My name, written with your intent, cannot be used by another to summon me. Any burnable surface will do in dire circumstances."

"And setting myself on fire is strongly discouraged."

"Very strongly."

"It's not like it would kill me."

"Hob."

"I'll stop. I'll stop. Thank you for this, truly. It really…it means a lot."

"You…mean. A great deal, to me. I would not cause you distress, not when I have means to soothe it. Forgive me, for not doing so sooner."

"Of course. Now. Tea?"

"…Yes. Thank you."

===== All-dialogue is a good exercise in capturing voice. Ultimately that's all this is. I've seen a few variations of 'burn Dream's name to call him' across the fandom, but special shout-out to @pellaaearien bc this heavily resembles the method and mechanics described in chapter 10 of Another Word for Ache.

On AO3